Ian  DIEGO 


LOi 

rjr, 


Phone:  CI  4 


pvyant  anb^  faibjio  ^^nj  t^ai  fjL-  ft^oib}  affantCt  rtfP  Vjw 
folR  to  councrpff .  2(nbi  2to$it)  ti^cp  iijfcc  flCtc  cDm<ti . 
2(nt^<Hcu  fapi?  <t»  Qrti)  *^af  foz  to  com*  to  ^  pcd«  of  t§« 
^tvRc0  t^«p  mufftiKtce  pflp«  hx)«Hfj>  t^oufanb^  mArc 
of  |jo£t3?<j»ii? of  (joob^  yop«/  <in2>?d0mocQ<of  fpCucr/ 
3(ttt?  aCfo  a«  Cpnbeti>i  ^oufantn  qiiarfertf  of  larfjefe. 
TCttb^  t^i*  mu^c  &  mart  v)?  tcbp  Ibtff^  m  cwfapt)  trrmc  . 
2C»ii)?t^atylb^tlti^<|^  ^M«f^w/  t^<f  (Raff  fettc /etDcfe 
to  fy>itx  *^<  pwe  Obpt^  out  o«p  f mwbe  « itirtC^nj^pnc  • 
ZCfjtve  it  Xttae  ozbcf  itcb^  Q?vo  fOt«  fomc  fl^oib?  6e  tkui^ibi 
flM&elu^pfie  t^€p  aucK  Befp  t^tr  rtGbu»trcr .  SCnt^cnoz 
ab<fi<r  to  t^c  |)W«/?  p  R<pte  <§<  panoi>pttii; / ^«  Ol^^ic^c 
ytetfifyibiionatut'^lipant  /  anft?  Baw  to  ^j^nj a jgoetr 
(fuaitUk  of  |jol{)(?.2fittibi;  t^ctc  Oftcrc^cp  tvoo  at  counceiff 
2fMt^c»icufar^to  ^Mjt^rtf  ix/^oC&/tai?<  tl^ie  fomf  of 
^ol&u .  itoljbrpf  %  ftioib2  Bi  iv^x  aft  ^pd  Cpf  /  anft?  t^at 
It?  f^oibi  ^^ui  to  ^ptij  <^<  poCUbpuTti  /  a«t>^  t^af  Homati 
/i)ol&?  Rfiowc  t^trof  ;ffbj  j  ^utfapb  f^  -cjafe  fete  drib 
ae  inoc^c  btctc  aa  t^ou.tQntonp  mat)f^oCt>2^novot 
ii)uof.2(nb!  J  fl7«ff  fentc  ^ii  to  va;r«<»/  rtn&efje  (Raff  fttc 
t(;<B(rtm<  i?|)ot}  ^pM) .  anft?  <ucrp  mai)  f'J'iff  fafc  t^at 

<9<rofft>t^ctwozct. 

Ti^oant  tf)<  yrccfj«)iffcb  loiiijc  to  t^e  Xbozbc^  of 
2fMt^<«{U  /  Butmt^<  <iibe  foz  ot)U«tp/c  of  f^< 
rjtxrfr  fom*  of  ^ib^  tfjat  ani£)inoi  ^af  to  fj^nj. 
1t)«co«/cM^t:^i^rtt^(f)oCc)^tnKc  t^<  padtibpumanb; 
Rtc  ^ptavoa^.  '^i^t}2int^<not  toR«  %t  aHonc  anb^ 
fcnte  i^pf  vnto  vfi;-«e  /  tCjc  famt  MpJ^  /^ntv  affec  t^c  . 
\x>fe  ranm  rtinon^c  t{)«  p«j>(c  t^af  vJQ^c«j  Bp  ^w  ftiBtiBtf 
fy^bi  ttifi<tj  anb^  CbjH  atUit j'<  t^<  ^attabpHrt;  out  of  f  i-pf  < 


Facsimilk  of  a  Page  of  Caxton's  Recuyell. 

The  first  book  printed  in  English.     See  page  38.     The  passage  tells 
how  Anthenor  secured  the  palladium  from  the  temple  in  Troy. 
(Courtesy  of  the  New  York  Public  Library.) 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


BY 

ROY   BENNETT   BACE 

LATU    ASSISTANT    PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH 
SWABTHMORK    COLLEGE 


ALLYN    AND    BACON 


COPYRIGHT,  1918.   BY 
ROY  BENNETT  PACE 


KoitDooU  ^rtss 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CARLETON   BROWN 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/englisliliteraturOOpaceiala 


PREFACE 

This  volume  follows  the  general  plan  of  the  author's 
American  Literature.  Simplicity  of  treatment  and  useful- 
ness are  the  chief  objects  sought. 

Detailed  treatment  is  given  to  those  writers  only  whose 
works  have  a  basis  of  appeal  to  the  average  student.  The 
personal,  biographical  element  predominates  ;  but  consistent 
effort  has  been  made  to  bring  the  writers  into  relation  with 
the  national  and  world  currents  of  thought  of  their  times. 

As  in  the  American  Literature,  much  thought  has  been 
given  to  illustrations.  The  study  of  what  may  be  called 
literary  geography  and  topography  is  a  valuable  aid  to  the 
study  of  literature.  The  usefulness  of  pictures  of  homes 
and  haunts,  and  of  portraits  of  the  authors  themselves,  has 
long  been  recognized ;  and  it  is  the  experience  of  many 
teachers  that  facsimiles  of  manuscripts  and  title-pages  are 
also  of  much  value.  Many  unusual  reproductions  appear 
here,  some  for  the  first  time  in  print. 

In  preparing  a  book  of  this  kind,  where  the  first  and  last 
thought  is  adaptability  to  students'  needs,  it  is  desirable  to 
get  as  many  points  of  view  as  possible.  The  author  has 
received  help  from  many  sources,  especially  from  his  col- 
leagues at  Swarthmore  and  from  former  students  now 
teaching  in  secondary  schools.  He  is  also  particularly  in- 
debted to  Miss  Harriet  G.  Martin,  of  Wadleigh  High  School, 
New  York  City,  and  to  Miss  Emily  F.  Sleman,  of  Central 
High  School,  Washington,  D.  C,  who  read  much  of  the 
manuscript  and  made  many  helpful  suggestions. 

ROY  BENNETT  PACE. 

SWARTHMOKK    CoLI.EGB, 

July  4,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

PAOK 

Maps  and  Illustrations xi 

Chapter  I.    From  the  Beginning  to  the  Norman  Conquest  .        .  1-14 

Angles  and  Saxons 1 

Beowulf 3 

Caedmon  and  Cynewulf 6 

Beda 8 

Alfred  the  Great 10 

Chapter  II.     From    the   Norman    Conquest  to    the   Death    of 

Chaucer l.S-32 

The  Normans 15 

Geoffrey    of    Monmouth  —  Arthurian    Romances  ;     Other 

Romances 16 

Wiclif  and  Langland.     Mandeville 20 

Chaucer  .        .        .        .  ' 24 

Chapter  III.    From  the  Death  of  Chaucer  to  the  Accession  of 

Elizabeth 33-45 

The  Fifteenth  Century 33 

The  "  Popular  "  Ballad 84 

The  Printing  Press  —  Caxton.    Malory          ....  36 

The  Renaissance  :  Wyatt  and  Surrey.     Tyndale  ...  39 

Chapter  IV.     From  the  Accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  Closing  of 

the  Theatres 46-85 

The  Preparatory  Period 46 

The  Period  of  Splendor 47 

John  Lyly  and  Euphuism 49 

Sidney.     Spenser,     Bacon 51 

The  Drama  before  Shakspere 62 

Marlowe 70 

Shakspere 72 

Ben  Jonson 82 

The  King  James  Bible 85 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Chapter  V.     From  the  Closing  of  the  Theatres  to  the  Restora- 
tion                86-117 

Puritan  and  Royalist  (or  Cavalier)        .        .        .        .        .86 
The  Cavalier  Poets  —  Lovelace,  Suckling,  Carew,  Herrick  .      90 

John  Milton 98 

Sir  Thomas  Browne 113 

Chapter  VI.    From  the  Restoration  to  the  Death  of  Dryden     118-134 
The  Change  in  Govenunent  and  Life     '.        .         .         .         .118 

Pepys,  Historian  of  Private  Life 120 

John  Dryden 123 

John  Bunyan 129 

A  Famous  Attack  on  the  Stage 134 

Chapter  VII.     From  the  Death  of  Dryden  to  the  Publication  of 

"  Lyrical  Ballads " 135-218 

Characteristics  of  Eighteenth  Century  England    .         .        .  135 

The  Age  of  Pope 136 

Prose  Satirists  —  Swift ;  Defoe 140 

The  Periodical  Essayists  —  Steele  and  Addison     .        .         .  155 

The  Monarch  —  Alexander  Pope 164 

The  Forei-unner  of  Romanticism  —  James  Thomson      .         .  172 

The  Age  of  Johnson 176 

Johnson  —  and  Boswell 178 

Two  Great  Irishmen — Goldsmith  and  Burke        .        .        .  186 

Collins.     Gray.     Cowper 195 

Robert  Burns 204 

Rise  of  the  Novel 213 

Chapter  VIII.     From  the  Publication  of  "Lyrical  Ballads"  to 

the  Death  of  Ruskin 219-364 

Romanticism  —  Definition     .        .        .        .        .        .        .  219 

The  Lake  Poets  —  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge       .         .         .  223 

Poets  of  Revolt  —  Byron  ;  Shelley 242 

The  Poet  of  Beauty  —  Keats 255 

Romantic  Prose  Essayists  —  Lamb  ;  De  Quincey  .        .         .  261 

Fiction  of  the  Romantic  Period  —  Scott ;  Jane  Austen         .  272 

The  Victorian  Age  —  Characteristics 284 

Historians  and  Essayists  —  Macaulay  ;  Carlyle     •        .        .  285 

Novelists  —  Dickens  ;  George  Eliot ;  Thackeray   .        .        .  297 


CONTENTS 


IX 


The  Scientist  in  Literature  —  Huxley    . 
Social  Reformers  —  Ruskin  ;  Arnold     . 
The  Great  Poets — Tennyson;  Browning 
Stevenson,  Romancer  and  Essayist        ... 

Conclusion 

Supplementary  List  of  Authoes      .... 
Sblbctbd  List  of  Bioghaphical  and  Critical  Works 

INDEX         . 


pa<;e 
316 
322 
335 
353 

364 
367 

388 

391 


MAPS   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facsimile  of  a  Page  of  Caxton\s  Becuyell     .        .        .       Frontispiece 

PA.GE 

Literary  Map  of  England facing  1 

Exeter  Cathedral 2 

Caedmon  Cross  at  Whitby    , 4 

Ruins  of  Whitby  Abbey 5 

Beowulf  Manuscript 7 

Durham  Cathedi-al        .        .  ' 9 

Statue  of  King  Alfred,  Winchester 11 

St.  Martin's  Church,  near  Canterbury 12 

William  the  Conqueror 13 

Ruins  of  Monastery  at  Glastonbury 18 

John  Wiclif 20 

Mandeville 23 

Chaucer 24 

The  Old  Tabard  Inn,  Southwark  .        .        .         .        .        .26 

Chaucer's  Prioress 28 

Place  of  Becket's  Martyrdom 30 

Poefs  Comer,  Westminster  Abbey 31 

Caxton  and  his  Printers  Reading  his  First  I*roof  ....  37 

The  River  Cam 40 

Henry  Ploward,  Earl  of  Surrey 41 

Tower  of  London 43 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  Tyndale's  Testament       ....  45 

Queen  Elizabeth 47 

Ruins  of  Kenilworth  Castle 49 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 61 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  the  Arcadia 52 

Edmund  Spenser 55 

Facsimile  of  Bacon's  Signature 58 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  an  Early  Complete  Edition  of  Bacon's 

Essays 60 

A  Pageant  Car  Performance  at  Coventry 63 

xi 


xii  MAPS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 


rAOK 


Interior  of  an  Elizabethan  Theatre 67 

Corpus  Christ!  College  .        .         . 71 

Shakspere's  Birthplace 72 

Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage  at  Shottery 73 

Interior  of  Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage 74 

The  Droeshout  Portrait  of  Shakspere 76 

Holy  Trinity  Chm-ch,  Stratford-on-Avon 77 

Chancel  of  Holy  Trinity  Church,  Stratford  .         .        .         .78 

Inscription  on  Shakspere's  Tomb 80 

"  O  Rare  Ben  Jonson  " 83 

Facsimile  of  Jonson's  Autograph 84 

Cromwell 87 

Charles  I 88 

Reception  Hall  in  a  Typical  Cavalier  Mansion     .         .        .        .90 

St.  John's  College,  Cambridge 94 

Dean  Prior  Church 95 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  Hesperides        ......  97 

Milton .98 

Milton's  Mulberry 09 

Milton's  Bible 102 

Windsor  Castle 104 

Library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge 107 

Memorial  to  Milton .108 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  Paradise  Lost  .        .                 ...  109 

Milton  Dictating  Paradise  Lost 112 

Sir  Thoma.s  Browne II4 

Facsimile  Title-page  of /fydriotopAia,  First  Edition    .         .         .115 

I'epys 121 

Facsimile  of  Pepys's  Signatm-e 122 

Dryden 124 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Dryden 126 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  Dryden's  The  Medal        .        .        .        .127 

Jail  on  Bedford  Bridge 131 

Bunyan 133 

Map  of  London  and  Vicinity I37 

Jonathan  Swift 140 

Trinity  College,  DubUn 141 

Saint  Patrick's  Cathedral,  Dublin 14.5 

Facsimile  of  Manuscript  of  Swift 148 


MAPS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

PAGR 

Daniel  Defoe 151 

Defoe  iu  the  Pilloiy 153 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  First  Edition,  1719     .  154 

The  Charterhouse  School 157 

Steele 168 

"  Addison's  Walk  " 160 

Addison 162 

Pope 166 

T^vickenliam  Ferry  on  the  Thames 168 

Facsimile  of  Pope's  Autograph 171 

Jedburgh  Abbey 173 

Thomson       .  " 175 

Lichfield  Cathedral .        .        .178 

Samuel  Johnson 180 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Samuel  Johnson 181 

(iarrick 183 

BosweU 186 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Goldsmith       ......  188 

Goldsmith  and  Johnson         ........  189 

Goldsmith's  Grave 192 

Burke 193 

Facsimile  of  Burke's  Autograph 195 

Stoke  Poges  .        .      ' 197 

Gray  in  Silliouette 198 

Facsimile  of  Gray's  MS.  of  the  Elegy 199 

Cowper 201 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Cowper 202 

"  Bobby  "  Burns 204 

The  Biu-ns  Cottage  at  Ayr 205 

Interior  of  Bums's  Birthplace  at  Ayr 206 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Burns 207 

Scene  of  the  Fateful  Meeting  of  Tam  and  Souter  Johnie      .        .  209 

Tam  O'Shanter  Crossing  the  Bridge  of  Ayr          ....  210 

"  AUoway's  Auld  Haunted  Kirk  " 211 

The  Burns  Mausoleum  at  Dumfries 213 

Fielding 216 

Map  of  the  Lake  District      '. 220 

Grasmere  and  its  "One  Green  Island  '' 222 

Grammar  School  at  Hawkshead 224 


xiv  MAPS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAOB 

Interior  of  Hawkshead  School 225 

Wordsworth  at  the  Age  of  Forty-eight 226 

Dove  Cottage 227 

Dorothy  Wordsworth 228 

Mrs.  Wordsworth 229 

Wordsworth  Walking  on  Helvellyn 231 

Rydal  Mount 232 

Grisedale  Tarn 233 

The  Wordsworth  Graves .235 

Coleridge 237 

Dove  Cottage  Living-room 238 

Facsimile  of  Coleridge's  Manuscript     .        .         .        .  *     .         .  241 

Byron  .        .■ 243 

Miss  Chaworth 244 

Newstead  Abbey 245 

Facsimile  of  Byron's  Manuscript 247 

Hucknall  Church,  near  Newstead 248 

Shelley 250 

Shelley's  Grave 252 

Facsimile  of  Shelley's  Sky-Lark 254 

Keats 256 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Keats 258 

Keats's  Grave 259 

East  India  House 262 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Lamb 265 

De  Quincey 267 

The  Study  at  Dove  Cottage 269 

Title-page  to  the  First  Edition  of  the  Confessions        .        .        .  270 

Sir  Walter 273 

Loch  Katrine  and  "  Ellen's  Isle  " 275 

Facsimile  of  Letter  of  Scott  to  Bishop  Percy  about  Ballads         .  276 

Scott's  Tomb,  Diyburgh  Abbey 278 

The  Entrance  Hall  at  Abbotsford 279 

Jeanie  Deans's  Cottage 281 

Winchester  Cathedral 283 

Facsimile  of  Macaulay's  Signature 286 

Macaulay 288 

Carlyle 291 

Carlyle's  London  Home 292 


MAPS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS  xv 

PAGE 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Carlyle 295 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Dickeas 298 

One  of  Several  "  Originals  " 299 

Dickens's  Library  at  Gad's  Hill 301 

Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig  Taking  Tea 303 

Arbury  Farm,  Warwickshire       .......  305 

Facsimile  of  George  Eliot's  Handwriting 307 

George  Eliot 309 

Bust  of  Thackeray  by  Marochetti 312 

Facsimile  of  Cover  of  the  First  Number  of  Vanity  Fair      .        .  313 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Thackeray 315 

Huxley 317 

Huxley's  Last  Home     . 319 

JohnRuskin .323 

Buskin's  Grave 326 

Oriel  College 329 

Matthew  Arnold 331 

Facsimile  of  Arnold's  Manuscript        .......  .333 

Somersby  Rectory 337 

Tennyson  at  the  Age  of  Eighteen 338 

Farriugford 340 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 341 

Tennyson  Memorial 343 

A  Letter  of  Browning 347 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 349 

Robert  Browning 350 

Palazzo  Rezzonico 352 

Facsimile  Title-page  of  a  Volume  Presented  by  Stevenson  to  his 

"Cummie" .  355 

VaiUma 358 

Stevenson 360 

Facsimile  of  Stevenson's  Manuscript  Memoirs  of  Himself  .        .  363 


A  LiTERAKY  Map  of  Engi*a.nd 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


CHAPTER   I 

FROM  THE   BEGINNING  TO  THE   NORMAN  CONQUEST 
(Before  1066) 

Introduction.  —  All  of  us,  when  we  take  up  the  study  of  a 
subject,  naturally  wish  to  be  able  to  tell  others  what  we  are 
studying.  At  the  very  outset  of  a  study  of  literature, 
however,  we  discover  that  no  satisfactory  definition  has  yet 
been  given,  and  that  the  prospect  of  ever  giving  such  a  defini- 
tion is  small.  Shakspere's  dramas,  Chaucer's  tales  in  verse. 
Lamb's  informal  essays,  Macaulay's  formal  essays  in  literary 
criticism,  Huxley's  formal  essays  on  scientific  subjects, 
Thackeray's  novels,  Keats's  lyrics  —  here  are  a  few  of  the 
kinds  of  writing  that  we  call  literature ;  and  we  find  difficulty 
in  saying  what  they  have  in  common.  As  one  great  English 
writer  and  thinker,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  once  said :  it  is 
easier  to  say  what  is  not  literature  than  to  say  what  is. 

All  of  us  have,  nevertheless,  even  if  we  cannot  clearly  ex- 
press it,  a  fairly  definite  notion  of  what  characteristics  a  piece 
of  writing  must  have  to  be  classed  as  literature,  although 
there  is  the  widest  disagreement  as  to  degrees  of  literary 
merit.  The  phrase  "  English  literature  "  is  universally  under- 
stood to  mean  the  literature  produced  in  the  British  Isles. 

Coining,  of  Angles  and  Saxons  to  Britain.  —  English  litera- 
ture is  usually  said  to  have  begun  about  the  middle  of  the 

1 


2  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

fifth  century,  when  some  Teutonic  tribes,  Angles  and  Saxons, 
came  to  the  island  of  Britain  and  conquered  the  native  Celts. 
The  writings  of  the  seven  centuries  following  are,  in  fact, 
often  called  Anglo-Saxon. 

The  Oldest  English  Poem.  —  This  Anglo-Saxon  (or,  as  it 
is  sometimes  called,  "  Old  English  ")  literature  is  preserved 
in  several  large  manuscripts  in  the  libraries  of  the  British 


Exeter  Cathedral. 
Where  many  valuable  manuscripts  are  kept. 

Museum,  Oxford  University,  Exeter  Cathedral,  and  in  a  few 
fragments  elsewhere.  The  Exeter  Book  contains  many  poems, 
including  what  is  probably  the  most  ancient  piece  of  writing 
in  Anglo-Saxon.  This  ancient  piece  is  called  Wid^iih  (pro- 
nounced Weedseeth),  "  Far-Traveler,"  possibly  the  author's 
name,  but  more  probably  a  mere  epithet  applied  to  him. 

This  poem  of  143  lines  tells  the  wanderings  of  the  bard,  or 
"  scop,"  as  he  was  called,  through  many  lands.  He  is  pic- 
tured as  a  true  artist,  whose  chief  delight  is  in  the  practice 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST      3 

of  his  art,  though  its  cordial  reception  by  great  folk  con- 
tributes also  to  his  happiness.  The  poem  has  little  interest 
in  itself;  but  it  is  valuable  for  its  side-light  on  some  char- 
acters in  Beowulf,  and  for  the  portrayal  of  the  "  scop,"  or 
professional  poet,  an  important  member  of  every  nobleman's 
retinue.  His  business  it  was  to  inspire  the  warriors  to  battle, 
to  entertain  them  at  night  in  the  mead-hall,  and  to  chant 
requiems  over  the  great  dead. 

"  Beowulf."  —  The  oldest  piece  of  English  literature  hav- 
ing real  interest  to-day  is  the  epic  poem,  Beowulf.  Though 
the  date  of  composition  of  this  hero-poem  is  unknown,  it  is 
certainly  the  oldest  epic  in  any  Teutonic  language.  Parts 
of  it  were  undoubtedly  written  after  the  Christianizing  of 
the  Anglo-Saxons  in  Britain  {i.e.,  after  597  a.d.)  ;  but  most 
of  the  poem  is  as  certainly  pre-Christian.  Furthermore, 
although  the  only  version  we  have  of  the  story  is  in  the 
language  of  England,  the  hero  is  a  Scandinavian,  and  the 
action  takes  place  somewhere  on  the  continent  —  the  geog- 
raphy of  the  poem  is  far  from  clear.  The  story,  in  brief, 
is  as  follows : 

Beowulf,  nephew  to  Hygelac,  King  of  the  Geats  (in  Southern 
Sweden?),  hears  that  Hrothgar,  King  of  the  Danes,  is  suffering 
from  the  nightly  ravages  of  a  monster  named  Grendel.  For 
twelve  years  this  terrible  being  has  been  visiting  Hrothgar's  great 
hall,  Heorot,  and  making  away  -with  the  king's  warriors  —  with 
as  many  as  thirty  in  a  single  night.  When  this  story  reaches 
Beowulf's  ears,  he  sets  out  with  fourteen  comrades  to  rid  Heorot 
of  its  terror.  On  the  night  of  their  arrival  a  great  feast  is  set 
forth,  graced  by  the  presence  of  Hrothgar's  queen,  Wealhtheow. 
When  the  warriors  (all  except  Beowulf)  have  retired,  Grendel 
comes ;  and  after  devouring  one  of  the  Danes,  attacks  Beowulf. 
Finding  that  the  Geat  hero  is  too  strong  for  him,  Grendel 
escapes,  but  leaves  an  arm  in  Beowulf's  grasp,  and  dies  of  the 
wound  in  his  cave  at  the  bottom  of  a  lake. 


4  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Next  evening  Another  feast  is  spread  in  Beowulf's  honor,  and 
rich  gifts  are  presented  to  him.  The  time  of  rejoicing,  however, 
is  short;  for  when  the  warriors  have  again  sought  their  beds, 
Grendel's  mother  comes  seeking  vengeance,  and  carries  off 
iEschere,  Hr6thgar's  dearest  counsellor.  Beowulf  pursues 
her  to  her  cave  under  the  waters ;  and  after  a  day  of  hard  fighting 
returns  with  the  heads  of  both  monsters  as  trophies.  The  Geats 
then  set  sail  for  home,  laden  with  treasxu-es  sent  by  Hrothgar  to 
Hygelac  and  his  queen,  Hygd. 

Subsequently,  when  Beowulf  has  been  king  of  the  Geats  for 
fifty  years,  his  land  is  ravaged  by  a  dragon.     The  old  king  slays 


rW  rf  f^<^^ 


Caedmon  Cross  at  Whitby. 

the  fire-spitting  beast,  but  is  himself  mortally  wounded.  In 
accordance  with  his  dying  request,  the  treasure  is  brought  from 
the  dragon's  lair ;  the  dragon's  body  is  thrown  into  the  sea,  the 
hero's  body  is  burned,  and  the  treasure  deposited  in  a  mound 
built  on  the  funeral  pyre. 

Importance  of  the  Poem.  —  The  poem  gives  a  fairly  full 
account  of  the  life  of  our  ancestors  before  they  came  to 
Britain.  Lines  838-1250  present  an  entire  day,  from  early 
morning  when  the  warriors  gathered  in  the  gift-hall,  till  the 
hour  when  they  "  sank  to  sleep,"  each  with  his  armor  and 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST      5 


weapons  at  hand.  "  It  was  their  custom,"  says  the  poet, 
"  to  be  always  ready  to  fight,  whether  at  home  or  in  the 
field,  wherever  their  liege-lord  needed  them."  We  learn  that 
they  were  a  seafaring  people ;  that  they  believed  their  lives 
(and  deaths)  were  ordained  by  fate  (wyrd) ;  that  music,  both 
vocal  and  instrumental, 
was  with  them  a  much- 
loved  and  all  but  uni- 
versally practised  art; 
and  that  the  virtues  of 
courtesy  and  hospital- 
ity were  in  high  esteem 
among  them. 

The  author,  the  time, 
and  the  scene  of 
Beowulf  are  unknown. 
Indeed  the  general  be- 
lief is  that,  while  in  its 
present  form  it  is  the 
work  of  one  man,  it  was 
built  up  from  several 
separate  lays ;  and  that 
"  the  formation  of  the 
poem  .  .  .  must  have 
occupied  at  least  the 
greater  part  of  a  cen- 
tury." 1 

Although  the  authors 
of  these  productions  of 
pagan  England  are  unknown,  the  names  of  two  early  Chris- 
tian poets  have  come  down  to  us,  Caedmon  and  Cynewulf. 
(Ka'd  mun,  Ky'newulf.)  Beyond  the  characterization  of 
»  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  I,  31. 


Ruins  of  Whitby  Abbey. 


6  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

them  furnished  by  their  poems,  however,  it  cannot  be  said 
that  we  have  any  certain  knowledge  of  them. 

Csedmon.  —  The  first-named  lived  at  the  Abbey  of  Whitby, 
in  Yorkshire,  toward  the  end  of  the  seventh  century.  We 
learn  from  Beda,  the  early  historian  of  Britain,  that  Csed- 
mon  was  an  uneducated  man,  and  that  for  this  reason  he 
used  to  leave  the  gatherings  in  the  Abbey  at  festival  times 
before  his  turn  to  sing.  One  night  when  he  had  retired  from 
such  a  gathering  and  was  sleeping  in  the  stable,  a  voice  said 
to  him:  "  Csedmon,  sing  me  something."  He  replied  that 
he  could  not :  the  voice  repeated  its  demand.  "  What 
shall  I  sing?  "  asked  he.  "  Sing  the  beginning  of  things," 
said  the  voice.  Immediately  he  began  a  poem  in  praise  of 
God,  which  he  subsequently  enlarged  greatly,  telling  the 
story  of  Genesis,  Exodus,  and  Daniel.  This  poem,  com- 
monly referred  to  as  Caedmon's  Paraphrase,  is  thought  by 
some  to  have  given  Milton  hints  for  Paradise  Lost. 

Cjmewidf .  —  The  name  of  Cynewulf  we  know  from  his 
working  it  into  several  of  his  poems  by  means  of  symbols 
called  "  runes."  Of  his  life  it  cannot  be  said  that  we  really 
know  anything,  though  several  more  or  less  plausible  theories 
give  him  a  time  and  a  place.  Many  poems  have  been  at- 
tributed to  him  which  most  scholars  to-day  believe  to  be  not 
his ;  but  there  are  three  which  are  still  accepted  as  written 
by  Cynewulf  somewhat  less  than  a  hundred  j^ears  after 
Ceedmon.  They  are  Christ,  treating  of  the  Birth,  Ascension, 
and  Second  Coming  of  Christ ;  Life  of  Saint  Juliana;  and 
Elene,  based  on  the  story  of  the  Emperor  Constantine's 
mother,  who  found  the  true  cross.  These  poems  of  Cyne- 
wulf, with  Beowulf,  and  the  Phcenix,  founded  on  a  Latin 
poem  of  the  fourth  century,  but  modified  into  an  allegory 
of  the  Resurrection,  show  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  at  its  best. 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST      7 


Characteristics  of  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry :  (i)  Form.  —  The 
student  who  for  the  first  time  looks  at  a  page  of  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry  is  naturally  bewildered.  Not  only  is  the  language 
entirely  unfamiliar  to  him :  he  is  impressed  by  the  utter  dis- 
similarity between   the  verse  and  modern  English  poetry. 

Beowulf,  on  his  presentation  to  Hrothgar,  says : 


■  Waes  J>u,  Hro^ar,  hal ! 
maeg  ond  mago-tSegn  ; 
ongunnen  on  geogoJ»e. 
on  minre  e|>el-tyrf 


Ic  eom  Higelaces 
hsebbe  ic  maerSa  fela 
Me  weariS  Grendles  Jjing 
undyrne  cu^."  i 


.Waamni  mone^  njie^pmif  tikd^o 
fjfta,  (ctoj:=  piR^   lie|>««r  cjio^r|%«"4 


There  is  no  end-rhyme ;  the  lines  are  of  varying  length ;  and 
there  is  a  space  in  the  middle  of  each  line  dividing  it  into  two 
parts. 

It  is,  of  course,  alto- 
gether different  from 
the  poetry  of,  say,  Ten- 
nyson or  Poe.  The 
unit  is,  not  the  line, 
but  the  half-line ;  and 
the  half-line  is  classi- 
fied, not  by  the  num- 
ber of  syllables  it 
contains,  but  by  the 
number  and  position 
of  its  accents.  The 
two  parts  of  the  line  are  bound  together  by  alliteration  — 
i.e.,  "  the  riming  of  the  initial  sounds  of  .  .  .  rhythmically 
accented  syllables." 

'  Free  translation:  "Hail  to  thee,  Hrothgar!  I  am  Hygelac's  kins- 
man and  retainer ;  I  did  many  great  deeds  in  my  youth.  To  me  in  my 
native  land  has  come  news  of  this  affair  of  Grendel."  (The  symbols 
\>  and  '5  are  equivalent  to  modern  th;  cb  is  not  a+e,  but  a  separate  vowel 
sounded  nearly  like  a  in  modem  at.) 


Beowulf  Manuscripi\ 

Facsimile  of  page  1. 
(British  Museum.) 


8  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

In  the  passage  quoted  from  Beowulf  the  first  Hne  has 
rhythmical  accents  on  "  HroSgar,"  "  hal,"  and  "  Hygelaces  ;  " 
the  second,  on  "  mseg,"  "  mago-,"  and  "  msertSa ;  "  the  third, 
on  "  -gun-,"  "  geogo})e,"  and  "  Grendles ;  "  the  fourth 
(vowel-alUteration  —  any  vowel  alliterating  with  any  other), 
on  the  first  syllables  of  "  ej>el-tyrf  "  and  "  undyrne."  The 
first  half  of  the  first  and  second  lines  and  the  second  half  of 
the  third  have  five  syllables  each ;  the  second  half  of  the  first 
and  the  first  half  of  the  fourth  have  six  syllables  ;  the  second 
half  of  the  second  and  the  first  half  of  the  third  line  have 
seven  syllables ;    and  the  second  half  of  the  fourth  has  four. 

(2)  Subject-matter.  —  The  subject-matter  of  this  poetry 
is  very  limited  :  it  deals  with  religion  or  with  heroes.  Nature, 
except  the  sea,  produces  no  outJDursts  of  feeling  from  Anglo- 
Saxon  poets.  A  sense  of  humor  seems  not  to  have  been 
among  their  gifts.  The  emotion  of  love,  which  has  occasioned 
so  many  of  the  greatest  poems  in  all  languages,  finds  no 
expression  in  their  verse. 

(3)  Style.  —  The  lack  of  these  features  does  not,  however, 
signify  a  lack  of  interest  for  the  reader.  Even  in  translation 
we  may  see  the  poet's  fondness  for  striking  figures  of  speech, 
especially  metaphors,  very  frequently  in  the  form  of  com- 
pound words.  For  example,  the  body  is  called  the  "  bone- 
house,"  the  dragon  in  Beowulf  is  a  "  twilight-flier,"  the  sun 
is  "  God's  bright  candle,"  the  sea  is  "  the  whale-road,"  the 
ship  is  a  "  wave-rider."  The  devotion  of  warriors  to  their 
leader,  the  bravery  and  magnanimity  of  the  leader  himself, 
the  universal  practice  of  hospitality,  make  a  real  appeal  to 
the  reader  who  is  not  entirely  dominated  by  modern  ideas 
of  poetic  art. 

The  "Venerable"  Beda. — The  earliest  prose-writer  of 
Saxon  England  wrote  almost  wholly  in  Latin ;   and  his  one 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST      9 

work  in  Anglo-Saxon  —  a  translation  of  the  Gospel  of  Saint 
John  —  is  not  extant.  This  is  Bede,  or  Beda,  usually  called 
the  "  Venerable  "  Beda,  after  the  epitaph  placed  o\'er  his 
grave  in  Durham  by  a  devoted  admirer.  His  whole  life 
(673-735)  was  spent  in  the  county  of  Durham,  most  of  it 
in  the  monasterv  of  Jarrow,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Tvne. 


^^^^^^^^^HI^ffHK^*'- ',^<- -'-- 

DtRHAM  Cathedral. 
Where  Beda  is  buried. 

His  most  important  work  is  Historia  Ecclesiastica  Gentis 
Anglorlim  {"  Ecclesiastical  History  of  the  English  People  "), 
which  is  our  main  dependence  for  the  facts  of  English  history 
from  the  time  of  Caesar's  invasion  (55  B.C.).  The  "  Eccle- 
siastical History  "  holds  a  place  in  English  literature  by 
reason  of  its  translation  into  Anglo-Saxon  by  Alfred  a  century 
and  a  half  after  Beda's  death. 


10  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

From  North  to  South.  —  Csedmon,  Cynewulf,  Berla,  all 
lived  in  northern  England,  the  country  of  the  Angles.  Here 
in  the  great  monasteries  had  been  gathered  extensive  libraries 
in  connection  with  which  schools  were  established.  Their 
influence  was  felt  not  only  in  England  but  also  on  the  con- 
tinent, whither  some  of  the  English  scholars  went,  taking 
with  them  copies  of  the  works  treasured  in  the  monastic 
libraries.^ 

With  the  ninth  century,  as  a  result  of  the  Danish  invasions, 
the  chief  home  of  England's  literary  activity  shifted  from 
north  fo  south.  Landing  in  the  north,  the  Danes  laid  waste 
the  country,  ruthlessly  destroying  the  monasteries,  and 
threatening  the  entire  land.  That  they  were  stopped  before 
making  a  complete  conquest  was  due  to  the  bravery  and 
effective  leadership  of  Alfred,  King  of  Wessex  (i.e.,  of  the 
West  Saxons),  called  the  Great.  At  Edington  in  Wiltshire 
in  878  the  Danes  were  defeated,  and  shortly  afterward,  by 
the  Treaty  of  Wedmore,  acknowledged  Alfred  as  chief  ruler 
of  the  country. 

Alfred's  Literary  Labors.  —  With  the  success  of  Alfred 
on  the  field  of  battle  came  the  ascendency  of  his  kingdom  in 
literature  as  well  as  in  politics.  From  the  time  of  his  ac- 
cession, seven  years  before  the  Treaty  of  Wedmore,  he  had 
set  himself  to  arouse  interest  in  education  and  religion,  found- 
ing new  religious  houses  and  attracting  scholars  to  them, 
translating  many  Latin  works  of  interest  and  profit  to  Eng- 
lishmen. , 

Among  the  works  put  into  English  by  Alfred  himself  or 
by  men  associated  with  him  are :  History  of  the  World,  by 
Orosius,  a  Spanish  priest  of  the  fifth  century ;  Consolations  of 
Philosophy,  by  Boethius  (pronounced  Bo  e'thi  iis),  a  Roman 

'  All  of  these  works  were,  of  course,  ia  mauuscript.     See  page  36  ff. 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST     11 

who  is  supposed  to  have  written  the  book  while  in  prison  for 
political  crimes ;  the  Pastoral  Care  (a  hand-book  for  priests), 
by  Pope  Gregory  I ;  and  the  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Beda. 
The  works  are  not  always  literally  translated,  the  Consola- 
tions of  Philosophy  in  particular  showing  great  freedom  in 
rendering,  and  containing  many  passages  inserted  by  Alfred 
himself. 

In  his  Preface  to  the  Pastoral  Care  King  Alfred  laments 


Statue  of  Kino  Alfred,  Winchester. 

the  decay  of  learning  in  England,  and  lays  plans  for  the 
revival  of  it.     Writing  to  his  bishops,  he  says: 

"It  has  very  often  come  into  my  mind  what  wise  men  there 
were  formerly  throughout  England,  both  of  sacred  and  secular 
orders ;  and  how  happy  times  there  were  then  throughout  Eng- 
land. ...  So  general  was  the  decay  of  learning  in  England 
that  there  were  very  few  who  could  understand  their  rituals  in 
English  when  I  came  to  the  throne.  .  .  .  Therefore  it  seems 
better  to  me,  if  ye  think  so,  for  us  to  translate  some  books 
which  are  most  needful  for  men  to  know  into  the  language  which 


12 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


we  can  all  understand,  and  for  you  to  do  as  we  very  easily  can 
if  we  have  tranquillity  enough,  that  is  that  all  the  youth  now 
in  England  of  free  men,  who  are  rich  enough  to  be  able  to  devote 
themselves  to  it,  be  set  to  learn  as  long  as  they  are  not  fit  for 
any  other  occupation,  until  they  are  well  able  to  read  EngUsh 
writing ;  and  let  those  be  afterward  taught  in  the  Latin  language 
who  are  to  continue  learning  and  be  promoted  to  a  higher  rank." 


yr.  JNIartin's  Church,  near  Cantehhury. 
On  this  site  stood  the  first  church  in  Britain  used  by  Augustine. 

"  The  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle."  —  More  important,  all 
things  considered,  than  any  of  these  translations  is  the 
Anglo-Sa,ron  Chronicle,  begun  under  the  inspiration  of  Al- 
fred's illustrious  court  at  Winchester,  if  not  under  the  direct 
supervision  of  the  King.  This  work,  based  on  Beda's 
history  and  the  additions  from  various  cathedrals  and  mon- 
asteries, was  continued  to  the  death  of  King  Stephen  in  1 154, 
and  is  the  basis  of  our  knowledge  of  twelve  centuries  of 
British  history.  The  entries  vary  greatly  in  length  and 
importance.  For  the  year  444,  for  example,  the  entire 
record  is  that  "  Saint  Martin  died ;  "  whereas  for  449  there 


FROM  BEGINNING  TO  NORMAN  CONQUEST     13 

is  an  account  in  much  detail  of  the  coming  of  the  Angles, 
Saxons,  and  Jutes.     For  774  we  read : 

"In  this  year  a  red  cross  appeared  in  the  heavens  after  sun- 
set ;  and  in  this  year  the  Mercians  and  Kentish  men  fought 
at  Otford,  and  wondrous  serpents  were  seen  in  the  South  Saxons' 
land." 

Occasionally  the  simple  prose  of  the  Chronicle  is  broken 
by  a  spirited  poem,  of  which  the  best  are  the  Battle  oj 
Brunanhurh,  celebrating  the  \'ictory  of  Alfred's  grandson 
Athelstan  over  the  Danes  in  937 ;  and  the  Battle  of  Maldon, 
recording  the  defeat  in  991  of  the  Saxons  under  Byrhtnoth 
by  the  Danes.  A  good  idea  of  the  Battle  of  Brunanhurh 
may  be  got  from  the  concluding  section  of  Tennyson's 
translation : 

"Never  had  huger 

Slaughter  of  heroes 

Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 

Such  as  old  writers 

Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 

Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 

Up  from  the  East  hither 

Saxon  and  Angle  from 

Over  the  broad  billow 

Broke  into  Britain  with 

Haughty  war-workers  who 

Harried  the  Welshman,  when 

Earls  that  were  Im^ed  by  the 

Hunger  of  glory  gat 

Hold  of  the  land."  ^ 

Decay  of  Anglo-Saxon  Literattire.  —  With  the  passing  of 
Alfred  a  great  incentive  to  literary  production  passed ;  and 
both  the  Anglo-Saxon  literature  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  lan- 

'  The  translation  gives  a  good  idea  of  the  form  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry. 
See  pages  7-8. 


14  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

guage  underwent  a  rapid  decay.  During  the  century  and 
a  half  between  Alfred's  death  (901)  and  the  Norman  Con- 
quest (1066)  it  seems  that  no  poetry  was  produced  ;  and  the 
small  amount  of  prose  from  the  same  period  is  not  of  high 
order.  Besides  the  Chronicle  the  chief  contributions  to 
literature  were  sermons  and  saints'  lives.  Two  writers 
of  these  are  known  to  us  by  name  —  ^Ifric,  abbot  of 
Eynsham  near  Oxford,  and  Wulfstan,  Archbishop  of  York. 
Their  interest  for  us  to-day  is  very  slight.  It  is  merely, 
says  Andrew  Lang,  "  that  they  upheld  a  standard  of  learn- 
ing and  of  godly  living,  in  evil  times  of  fire  and  sword,  and 
that  English  prose  became  a  rather  better  literary  instru- 
ment in  their  hands." 

Under  Alfred's  successors  the  Danes  regained  most  of  their 
lost  territory ;  and  the  decay  of  national  life  went  along  with, 
possibly  helped  to  bring  about,  the  decay  of  language  and 
literature.  The  nation  needed  new  life ;  and  this  was 
brought  to  it  by  the  great  event  —  the  Norman  Conquest  — 
with  which  our  next  chapter  begins. 


CHAPTER  II 


FROM    THE    NORMAN    CONQUEST   TO   THE    DEATH  OF 
CHAUCER   (1066-1400) 

Origin  of  the  Normans.  —  A  few  years  after  Alfred's 
death  some  Scandinavian  pirates  sailed  southward  and 
invaded  what  is  now 
northern  France.  So 
bold  and  pressing  were 
they  that  Charles  the 
Simple  ceded  to  them 
the  duchy  of  Nor- 
mandy to  stop  their 
encroachments.  The 
newcomers,  called  Nor- 
mans (that  is,  North- 
men), soon  mixed  with 
the  natives,  producing 
a  new  race  having  the 
strength  and  boldness 
of  the  North,  and  the 
grace  and  refinement 
of  the  South.  In  1066 
they  invaded  England, 
and  defeated   Harold, 


William  the  Conqueror. 
Statue  at  Falaise,  his  birthplace. 


the  last  of  the  Saxon  kings,  in  the  battle  of  Hastings.  The 
coming  of  this  new  race  was  unquestionably  beneficial  in 
every  way  to  the  people  of  Britain. 

15 


16  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Too  much  emphasis  is  usually  laid  upon  the  antagonism 
and  separation  between  Saxons  and  Normans.  In  the  popu- 
lar mind  the  picture  in  Ivanhoe  fairly  represents  conditions 
at  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century;  whereas  the  distinction 
between  Norman  and  Saxon  had  virtually  disappeared  within 
half  a  century  after  the  Conquest.  When  Henry  I,  third  of 
the  Norman  sovereigns  of  England,  married  a  direct  de- 
scendant of  Alfred  the  Great,  there  could  be  no  further  ground 
for  calling  a  man  superior  or  inferior  because  he  was  a  Nor- 
man or  a  Saxon.  Henry,  moreover,  was  born  and  educated 
in  England,  and  almost  certainly  learned  the  English  lan- 
guage in  school. 

Immediate  Effect  of  Conquest  on  Language  and  Literature. 
—  The  English  began  immediately  to  adopt  many  Norman- 
French  words,  though  neither  the  written  nor  the  spoken 
language  became  anything  like  French.  The  fact  that  even 
at  the  present  time  English  has  more  words  from  other  sources 
than  from  Anglo-Saxon  does  not  signify  that  the  native  ele- 
ment of  our  vocabulary  is  small ;  for  of  the  words  used  often- 
est  by  us  all,  the  Anglo-Saxon  are  far  more  numerous.  For 
about  a  century  and  a  half  after  the  conquest,  moreover,  it 
does  not  appear  that  literature  was  greatly  enriched  by  works 
in  either  Norman-French,  English,  or  a  mixture  of  the  two. 
Latin  was  the  literary  language  of  Europe,  and  the  meagre 
literary  product  of  Britain  was  in  the  same  language. 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth :  Arthurian  Legends.  —  This 
British  literature  in  Latin  is  chiefly  in  the  form  of  chronicles, 
of  which  the  work  most  important  to  English  literature  is 
the  Historia  Regum  BritannicB  ("  History  of  the  Kings  of 
Britain"),  written  about  1135  by  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth. 
Geoffrey,  a  Welsh  priest,  claimed  that  he  compiled  his  his- 
tory from  authentic  sources ;  but  his  learned  contemporaries 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  17 

disputed  his  claim,  and  subsequent  scholarship  has  not  cer- 
tainly discovered  authorities  for  any  large  portion  of  his 
work. 

Of  Geoffrey's  life  we  know  almost  nothing ;  but  neither  his 
life  nor  his  literary  antecedents  can  add  to  or  detract  from 
his  importance  to  English  literature.  It  is  to  Geoffrey's 
History  that  we  must  trace  the  stories  used  by  Shakspere  in 
King  Lear  and  Cymbeline;  and  more  important  even  than 
these,  the  stories  of  King  Arthur.  Whether  or  not  Geoffrey 
invented  the  romance  of  Arthur  will  probably  never  be  known ; 
but  the  important  fact  to  note  is  that  Geoffrey  first  put  the 
material  into  literary  form.  His  work  was  soon  done  into 
French  verse  by  one  Wace,  and  from  French  into  English 
about  1205  by  Layamon.  Parts  of  the  legend  were  put  into 
French  by  Chretien  de  Troyes  and  others,  into  German  by 
Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  into  numerous  anonymous  ro- 
mances, both  prose  and  verse,  in  all  the  languages  of  Europe. 
A  compilation  from  all  sorts  of  sources  was  made  toward  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century  by  Malory ;  ^  and  from  that 
day  to  our  own  the  legend  has  attracted  the  pens  of  many 
poets,  including  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Matthew  Arnold, 
and  William  Morris. 

Other  Romances.  —  Besides  Arthur  and  his  knights  other 
heroes  were  made  the  subjects  of  romances.  Some  of  these 
deal  with  Charlemagne  and  his  peers,  others  with  Alexander 
the  Great,  still  others  with  purely  Germanic  figures  like 
Bevis  of  Hampton,  Havelok  the  Dane,  and  King  Horn.  Of 
most  of  these  romances  versions  exist  in  various  other  lan- 
guages, and  it  is  usually  impossible  to  say  which  is  the  original 
or  whether  the  original  is  extant.  Such  a  thing  as  literary 
property  was  unknown  until  very  modern  times ;  and  writers 

^  See  page  38. 


18 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


of  either  fiction  or  history  were  at  liberty  to  use  any  matter 
that  came  to  their  hands. 

Furthermore,  in  many  cases  the  writers  probably  drew  more 
largely  from  folk-tales  current  in  all  lands  than  from  any 
written  story.  A  possible  example  of  this  sort  of  procedure 
is  the  account  of  a  hero's  boyhood,  of  which  the  most  famous 


Ruins  of  Monastery  at  Glastonbury. 
Where  King  Arthur  was  said  to  have  been  buried. 

is  the  story  of  Perceval,  one  of  Arthur's  knights.  This  is 
told  in  romances  extant  in  English,  French,  German,  and 
Welsh ;  and  in  the  opinion  of  most  scholars  it  is  impossible 
to  determine  whether  any  one  of  the  four  is  the  "  original." 
The  same  sort  of  story,  moreover,  is  told  in  folk-tales  of  al- 
most every  country,  and  of  numerous  heroes,  —  one  of  Finn, 
in  an  Irish  manuscript  dating  probably  from  the  tenth  century. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  19 

"  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight."  —  One  of  the  finest 
of  the  romances  in  English  is  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green 
Knight,  a  story  belonging  to  the  Arthurian  cycle  and  dating 
in  its  extant  form  from  the  latter  part  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  In  this  romance,  as  in  many,  two  stories  originally 
separate  are  brought  together.  The  second  deals  with  the 
testing  of  Gawain's  purity.  The  first,  regarding  the  origin 
and  development  of  which  a  vigorous  controversy  between 
scholars  has  raged  for  years,  deals  with  the  testing  of  his 
bravery,  and  runs  as  follows : 

On  New  Year's  Day,  when  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table  are  just  beginning  a  feast,  a  huge  knight  clad  all 
in  green  and  riding  a  horse  of  that  color  rides  into  the  hall  and 
demands  a  boon.  In  his  hand  he  carries  a  huge  axe ;  and  he 
desires  that  some  knight  give  him  a  blow  with  the  axe,  and 
promise  to  seek  the  Green  Knight  a  year  from  that  time  and  take 
without  resistance  a  similar  blow.  Gawain,  Arthur's  nephew  and 
the  most  courteous  of  the  Round  Table,  accepts  the  challenge. 
After  the  blow  is  given,  the  Green  Knight  takes  up  his  head 
and  rides  out,  the  head  calUng  upon  Gawain  to  keep  his  ap- 
pointment next  New  Year's  Day  at  the  Green  Chapel.  Faithful 
to  his  word,  Gawain  reaches  the  chapel  on  the  appointed  day, 
and  finds  his  antagonist  awaiting  him.  The  Green  Knight  makes 
only  a  feint  of  slaying  Gawain,  and  then  explains  that  the  whole 
performance  was  planned  merely  to  try  "the  most  faultless 
knight  that  ever  walked  the  earth." 

Religious  "Works.  —  Side  by  side  with  the  romances  ap- 
peared from  about  the  year  1200  nmnerous  religious  works, 
most  of  which  can  be  called  literature  only  by  exercise  of 
great  courtesy.  Of  these  the  most  famous  are  the  Poema 
Morale,  or  Moral  Ode ;  Ormulum,  a  series  of  sermons  in  verse ; 
Ancren  Riwle  (pronounce  Riwle  as  if  written  "  Rula  "),  or 
Rule  for  Nuns,  WTitten  for  the  guidance  of  three  noble 
women  who  belonged  to  no  order ;  Cursor  Mundi,  relating  in 
rhyme  the  whole  "  course  of  the  world  "  from  creation  to 


20 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


doomsday,  and  adding  many  legends  to  the  Bible  narrative. 
WitJi  the  exception  of  Ormulum,  which  was  so  named  "  be- 
cause Orm  composed  it,"  we  can  attach  no  author's  name  to 
these  works. 

From  the  great  mass  of  religious  writing,  however,  the 
names  of  two  writers  stand  out  prominently ;  one  by  reason 
of  his  great  influence,  the  other  as  producer  of  perhaps  the 
most  famous  piece  of  "  vision  "  literature  in  English.  These 
writers  are  John  Wiclif  and  William  Langland. 


Wiclif.  —  Although  satisfactory  evidence  regarding  many 
events  in  Wiclif 's  life  is  lacking,  we  are  reasonably  sure  that 

he  was  born  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  years  before  Chau- 
cer ;  and  we  know  that  he 
died  in  L384  —  about  the 
time  that  Chaucer  was  ma- 
turing the  plan  for  The 
Canterbury  Tales.  He  was 
educated  at  Oxford,  and  in 
1360  was  master  (that  is, 
president)  of  one  of  the 
colleges  there,  Balliol  (Bal- 
yol).  On  becoming  rector 
of  a  neighboring  church  not 
long  after,  he  gave  up  his 
college  position ;  and  to  the 
end  of  his  life  he  was  a  zeal- 
ous preacher  and  laborer  for 
the  good  of  the  common 
people.  Eight  years  before 
his  death  he  had  been  summoned  before  an  ecclesiastical 
court  to  give  account  of  his  preaching ;  and  only  the  force  of 


John  Wiclik. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  21 

popular  feeling  in  his  favor  prevented  his  being  arrested  on 
an  order  from  the  Pope. 

Wiclif 's  Bible.  —  Wiclif 's  offences  in  the  eyes  of  the 
church  were  his  objection  to  various  dogmas,  and  his  un- 
sparing criticism  of  a  self-indulgent  priesthood.  His  con- 
tribution to  literature  was  a  direct  result  of  the  first  of  these : 
he  brought  about  the  translation  into  English  of  the  entire 
Bible,  that  the  people  might  read  and  interpret  for  them- 
selves, and  that  each  individual  might  work  out  a  rule  of 
life  for  himself.  Addressed  chiefly  to  the  uneducated,  Wic- 
lif's  Bible  is  characterized  by  the  simplicity  and  directness 
of  style,  and  by  the  preference  for  homely,  everyday  language 
that  characterized  its  great  successor,  the  King  James,  or 
"  Authorized "  Version.  The  reformer  had  many  able 
assistants,  and  it  is  not  certain  just  how  much  of  the  trans- 
lation was  done  by  Wiclif  himself,  and  how  much  under  his 
direction.  Nearly  the  whole  of  the  New  Testament,  how- 
ever, is  believed  to  be  his. 

Langland.  —  We  have  named  William  Langland  as  the 
second  great  name  connected  with  religious  writing  of  this 
period.  This  name  is  given  to  the  author  of  a  work  called 
the  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman,  written  about  1362,  and 
subsequently  revised  and  extended.  For  a  number  of  years 
a  controversy  has  raged  over  the  authorship  of  the  Vision, 
some  scholars  believing  that  as  many  as  five  authors  had  a 
hand  in  writing  it.*  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  average 
student  this  question  is  of  little  or  no  consequence.  Piers 
the  Plowman  makes  an  appeal  to  all  interested  in  the  life  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  history  of  religious  thought,  or  in 
allegorical  and  vision  literature. 

'  See  Manly,  in  Cambridge  History,  vol.  II,  chap.  I. 


22  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"  Piers  Plowman."  —  In  the  "  Prologue  "  the  author  rep- 
resents himself  as  falling  asleep,  one  May  morning,  on  a 
hill,  and  having  a  marvelous  dream.  In  this  dream  he  saw 
"  a  fair  field  of  folk,"  —  folk  of  all  social  classes,  all  occupa- 
tions, all  shades  of  character.  There  were  farm-laborers, 
merchants,  representatives  of  various  religious  orders,  jesters 
and  jugglers  ("  Judas  children  "),  lawyers  and  beggars,  butch- 
ers and  barons.  "  All  this  I  saw  sleeping,  and  seven  times 
more."  The  people,  almost  without  exception,  are  engaged 
in  occupations  which  are  either  positively  harmful  or  else 
useless.  Besides  the  persons  named  from  their  employ- 
ments there  are  numerous  personified  abstractions  —  Truth, 
Falsehood,  Guile,  Duplicity,  Meed,  Theology,  Conscience ; 
and  in  the  very  complicated  allegory  of  the  poem  the 
abuses  of  the  day  are  attacked  and  the  people  are  exhorted 
to  better  living. 

On  the  formal  side  Piers  Plowman  is  important  because  it 
was  written  in  the  alliterative,  unrhymed  metre  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  verse.  No  English  poem  was  written  subsequently 
in  this  form  —  modern  English  poetry  has  followed  Chaucer, 
who  adopted  and  modified  the  French  form,  characterized 
by  end-rhyme  and  a  regularly  recurring  accent  or  stress. 

Mandeville's  "  Travels."  —  Another  work  of  the  four- 
teenth century  of  i^iterest  to  modern  as  well  as  mediaeval 
readers  is  a  curious  one  known  as  the  Travels  of  Sir  John 
Mandeville.  This  book  "  had  been  a  household  work  in 
eleven  languages  and  for  five  centuries  before  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  Sir  John  never  lived,  that  his  travels  never  took 
place,  and  that  his  personal  experiences,  long  the  test  of  others' 
veracity,  were  compiled  out  of  every  possible  authority, 
going  hack  to  Pliny,  if  not  further."  ^ 

'  Cambridge  History,  II,  90. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  23 


It  pretends  to  give  the  experiences  of  the  author,  an  Eng- 
lish knight,  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,  starting  from  St. 
Albans  in  Hertfordshire  in  1322.  It  pretends  to  be  a  guide 
for  other  pilgrims,  and  hence  has  somewhat  of  a  religious 
flavor;  but  its  best  claim  to  distinction  now  is  as  the  first 
English  prose  work  of  which  the 
aim  is  entertainment.  Its  effect 
comes  chiefly  from  a  trick  used 
afterward  with  great  success  by 
Defoe  and  Swift,  the  use  of  ex- 
act figures  and  of  numerous  cir- 
cumstantial details  in  connec- 
tion with  the  wonders  described. 

In  a  certain  lake,  for  example, 
grow  reeds  thirty  fathoms  long ; 
and  others  apparently  longer,  at 
the  roots  of  which  are  found 
precious  stones  of  great  virtues. 
A  further  evidence  of  his  truth- 
fulness is  the  occasional  admis- 
sion that  he  speaks  from  hear- 
say ;  as  when  we  read  :  "In  the 
Isle  of  Lango  is  yet  the  daughter 
of  Hippocras,  in  form  and  like- 
ness of  a  great  dragon,  that  is  a  hundred  fathoms  in  length, 
as  men  say ;  for  I  have  not  seen  her."  Or :  "Of  Paradise 
I  cannot  speak  properly,  for  I  was  not  there." 

That  the  work  was  immensely  popular  is  shown  by  the 
existence  to-day  of  some  300  manuscripts  of  it.  Its  setting 
forth  what  was  accepted  as  fact  by  the  best  thinkers  of 
Mandeville's  time  makes  it  worthy  of  attention  to-day. 
Notable  examples  of  this  are  his  account  of  the  cotton  plant 
and  his  belief  in  the  roundness  of  the  earth.     (It  must  be 


Maxdeville. 

From  a  drawing  in  a  MS.  in 
the  British  Museum. 


24 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


remembered  that  he  wrote  a  century  before  Columbus  sailed 
westward  for  India.)  The  Travels  is,  moreover,  written  in 
an  almost  uniformly  easy,  smooth  style :  open  the  volume 
quite  at  random,  and  one  will  assuredly  find  interesting 
matter. 

GEOFFREY   CHAUCER,    1.340-1400 

There  remains  to  be  treated  in  this  period  one  writer 
whose  fame  rests  on  a  far  solider  basis  than  any  yet  men- 
tioned. No  concession  need  be 
made  dn  historical  or  other 
grounds  to  place  Chaucer  high, 
not  only  among  medieval  poets, 
not  only  among  English  poets, 
but  among  poets  of  all  times 
and  lands.  Even  Matthew  Ar- 
nold, who  denies  Chaucer  a  po- 
sition among  "  the  great  clas- 
sics," admits  that  his  poetry 
shows  a  "  large,  free,  simple, 
clear  yet  kindly  view  of  human 
life" ;  that  he  is  "a  genuine 
source  of  joy  and  strength  " ; 
and  that  he  has  "  the  power  to 
survey  the  world  from  a  central,  a  truly  human  point  of 
view."  ^  If  these  admissions  are  justified,  the  denial  of 
"  classic  "  standing  to  the  poet  must  be  due  to  a  very  re- 
stricted use  of  the  term. 

We  have,  along  with  much  uncertainty,  more  information 
regarding  Chaucer's  life  than  regarding  any  writer  previously 
considered.  For  these  additional  facts  we  are  indebted  not 
at  all  to  great  appreciation  in  his  day  of  his  literary  efforts, 


Chaucer. 

From  the  Ellesmere  MS. 
(British  Museiun.) 


1  "The  Study  of  Poetry,"  in  Essays  in  Criticism,  Second  Series. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  25 

but  to  his  activity  in  public  affairs.  At  various  times  he 
held  a  municipal  appointment  in  London,  sat  in  Parliament, 
served  in  the  army,  and  performed  diplomatic  errands  on 
the  Continent. 

Early  Life.  —  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  a  Londoner,  the  son 
of  a  wine  merchant,  who  at  one  time,  possibly  but  by  no  means 
surely  at  the  time  of  the  poet's  birth,  lived  in  Thames  Street. 
The  location  gains  interest  from  the  fact  that  near  at  hand 
is  the  bridge  across  which  pilgrims  to  Canterbury  passed. 
The  occupation  of  the  poet's  father  was  no  hindrance  to 
social  aspirations ;  and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  Geoffrey  was 
attached  to  a  royal  household  —  that  of  Lionel,  Duke  of 
Clarence,  third  son  of  Edward  IIL  Although  there  is  no 
evidence  regarding  the  character  or  extent  of  his  education, 
his  writings  show  that  he  was  well  informed  along  all  lines 
of  interest  in  his  day.  His  enjoyment  of  the  King's  favor 
is  shown  by  the  fact  that,  on  his  being  captured  while  serv- 
ing in  the  army  in  France  a  few  years  later,  Edward  himself 
contributed  to  the  fund  for  Chaucer's  ransom. 

Continued  in  the  Favor  of  the  Great.  —  Chaucer  also 
profited  by  the  favor  of  Edward's  fourth  son,  John  of  Gaunt, 
Duke  of  Lancaster.  One  of  his  earliest  poems,  The  Death 
of  Blanche  the  Duchess,  was  written  in  memory  of  John's 
first  wife.  It  is  thought  b}^  some  that  Philippa,  the  poet's 
wife,  was  a  kinswoman  of  Gaunt.  Finally,  it  is  known  that 
Gaunt's  son,  Henry  IV,  on  his  accession  to  the  throne  in 
1399,  restored  to  Chaucer  the  pension  stopped  in  the  last 
years  of  Richard's  reign  when  Gaunt  was  out  of  the  country. 
This  continued  association  with  great  folk  was  of  immense 
help  as  a  preparation  for  his  work.  Even  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  though  none  of  the  pilgrims  are  from  the  higher  walks 
of  life,  are  written,  not  for  the  uneducated,  but  for  the  cul- 


26 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


tured.     This  fact  becomes  quite  plain  when  one  compares 
Chaucer's  work  with  Wiclif' s  or  with  Piers  Plowman. 

Under  Italian  Influence.  —  With  the  exception  of    The 
Death  of  Blanche  no  work  of  Chaucer  written  prior  to  his 


The  Old  Tabakd  Inn,  Southwakk. 

thirtieth  year  calls  for  mention  here.     Before  his  next  im- 
portant work  appeared  he  had  visited  various  cities  of  Italy  ^ 

1  It  should,  perhaps,  be  remarked  that  the  Life  of  St.  Cecilia,  assigned 
to  the  Second  Nun  in  the  Canterbury  collection,  was  probably  written 
about  the  time  of  the  first  Italian  journey.  The  Knight's  Tale  also  may 
be  a  reAnision  of  an  earlier  work  of  the  poet. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  27 

on  government  business,  and  had  come  under  the  influence  of 
the  great  Italian  writers,  Boccaccio  and  Petrarch ;  and  that 
of  Dante,  who  had  been  dead  fifty  years  and  who  was 
already  a  literary  saint. 

To  this  "  period  of  Italian  influence  "  belong  The  Parle- 
ment  of  Foules  (Assembly  of  Birds),  celebrating  the  betrothal 
of  King  Richard  II  in  1382 ;  The  House  of  Fame,  an  unfinished 
dream  poem,  the  meaning  of  which  is  still  in  dispute ;  Troilus 
and  Criseyde,  a  very  free  adaptation  of  Boccaccio's  version  of 
the  Trojan  hero's  love  story ;  and  the  Legend  of  Good  Women, 
an  apology  (real  or  pretended)  for  earlier  unfavorable  presen- 
tations of  women. 

"  The  Canterbury  Tales  "  ;  (i)  The  Form.  —  While  he 
was  writing  the  Legend,  Chaucer  was  probably  planning  his 
greatest  work,  The  Canterbury  Tales,  of  which  the  Prologue 
and  most  of  the  tales  may  be  dated  between  his  forty-fifth 
and  fiftieth  years.  For  a  number  of  tales  sources  have  been 
foimd ;  for  yet  another  number,  close  parallels ;  for  the  col- 
lection as  a  whole  no  model  has  been  suggested  offering 
resemblances  enough  to  be  worth  discussing.  The  idea  of 
setting  a  number  of  stories  in  a  "  frame  "  is  very  old ;  but 
Chaucer's  pilgrimage  is  distinctly  a  frame  of  his  own 
making,  the  material  of  which  he  obtained  from  personal 
experience. 

(2)  The  Plan.  —  The  plan  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  which 
should  be  read  by  all  in  Chaucer's  own  words.  Prologue, 
lines  1-42,  715-858,  is  as  follows : 

The  poet  stopping  one  April  evening  at  the  Tabard  Inn  in 
Southwark  (south  side  of  the  Thames,  just  across  the  bridge 
from  Thames  Street)  finds  a  party  of  twenty-nine  "sundry 
folk"  gathered,  ready  to  start  next  day  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Canterbury  —  especially  to  the  tomb  of  Thomas  §,  Becket  the 
martyr.     He  becomes  one  "of  their  fellowship"  immediately, 


28 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


and  decides  to  accompany  them.  The  Host  of  the  Tabard, 
Harry  Bailly,  also  decides  to  join  the  party ;  and  proposes  that, 
in  order  to  pass  the  time  pleasantly,  they  tell  stories  on  the 
road.  Each  pilgrim  (except  the  Host)  is  to  tell  two  stories  on 
the  way  to  Canterbury,  and  two  on  the  way  back ;  and  he  who 
tells  the  best  will  have  a  supper  at  the  Tabard  at  the  expense 
of  the  rest  —  Harry  Bailly  being  the  judge,  and  (though  he 
does  not  call  attention  to  the  fact)  the  provider  of  the  meal. 

(3)  The  Pilgrims.  —  The  portion  of  the   Prologue  from 
line  42  to  line  715  contains  descriptions  of  the  pilgrims.     This 

is  the  famous  gallery  of  por- 
traits which  justifies  Ar- 
nold's words  of  praise  quoted 
above.  Of  gentle  folk  there 
are  a  Knight,  a  Prioress,  a 
Clerk  (Scholar),  a  Lawyer,  a 
Doctor;  of  tradespeople,  a 
Shipman,  a  Woman  from 
Bath,  a  Manciple  (Steward), 
a  Merchant;  of  common 
people,  a  Miller,  a  Friar,  a 
Summoner  (a  knavish  offi- 
cial of  the  ecclesiastical 
court),  a  Cook,  a  Pardoner. 
Although  in  a  sense  these  figures  are  types,  they  are  strongly 
individualized.  The  poet  has  created  persons  representative 
of  certain  classes,  yet  with  physical,  mental,  or  moral  pe- 
culiarities that  distinguish  each  of  them. 

The  Lawyer,  for  example,  was  the  busiest  man  one  could 
find  — 

"And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was." 

The  Cook  was  admirable  in  every  part  of  his  busi- 
ness ;  but  it  was  a  great  pity  that  he  had  a  bad  sore  on 


Chaucer's  Prioress. 
From  the  Ellesmere  MS. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  29 

his  shin.     The  Squire  was  singing  or  playing  the  flute  all 

day  — 

"He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May." 

The  Prioress  had  the  daintiest  table  manners  possible, 
and  in  addition  — 

"She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel-breed. 
But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed. 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte  : 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte." 


iiii 


In  contrast  with  the  Prioress  is  the  Wife  of  Bath,  who,  though 
she  was  "  a  worthy  woman  all  her  life,"  was  nevertheless 
furious  if  any  woman  took  precedence  of  her  in  church. 
Every  student  should  know  at  least  a  few  of  these  pictures 
exactly  as  the  artist  drew  them. 

If  the  plan  set  forth  in  the  Prologtie  had  been  carried  out, 
there  would  be  about  125  tales.  .  There  are,  in  fact,  only 
twenty-four,  of  which  two  are  not  finished  (the  Squire's, 
and  Chaucer's  own  "  Sir  Thopas  ")  and  a  third  (the  Cook's) 
is  not  even  well  begun.  To  fulfil  such  a  plan  would  require 
the  whole  of  a  long  working  life,  and  probably  no  poet  at  the 
outset  of  his  career  is  capable  of  projecting  so  ambitious  a 
work. 

(4)  The  Tales.  —  Of  the  completed  tales  probably  the 
company  (which  would  judge,  naturally,  by  standards  of 
their  day,  not  of  ours)  would  have  voted  the  Knight's  to 
be  the  best.  This  tale  of  the  brothers  Palamon  and  Arcite 
and  their  love  for  Emily  has  a  wealth  of  detail  of  chivalric 
custom,  and  many  magnificent  pictures. 

The  pilgrims  would  doubtless  have  been  highly  entertained 
by  the  ribald  tales  of  some  of  the  commons,  and  touched  by 


30 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


the  tragedy  of  Virginia  as  recounted  by  the  Doctor.  It  is 
hard  to  think  that  they  did  more  than  endure  the  Parson's 
discourse  on  "  The  Seven  Deadly  Sins,"  eminently  fitting 
though  it  was  that  he  should  choose  such  a  theme.     The 

appropriateness  of  tale 
to  teller  is  further  shown 
by  the  Nun's  Priest's 
Cock  and  Fox  story, 
with  its  wholesome  mor- 
als of  "  never  trust  to 
flattery,"  and  "  never 
talk  when  you  should 
hold  your  peace ;  "  by 
"Patient  Griselda"  from 
the  Clerk,  which  he 
learned  from  Petrarch, 
"  the  laureate  poet ;  " 
by  the  Pardoner's  story 
of  the  three  "  rioters  " 
who  met  violent  deaths 
at  each  other's  hands 
because  of  their  cupid- 
ity. 

Merits  of  the  "  Can- 
terbury Tales."  —  We 
must  say,  then,  that, 
even  with  no  other  work 
before  us  than  the  Can- 
terbury Tales,  the  author  is  entitled  to  rank  very  high  among 
literary  artists  for  (1)  the  originality  of  his  conception,  (2)  the 
wonderful  group  of  human  portraits,  (3)  the  fitting  of  tale 
lo  teller,  and  (4)  his  power  as  a  story-teller. 


Place  of  Becket's  Martyrdom. 
In  Canterbury  Cathedral. 


FROM  THE  CONQUEST  TO  CHAUCER'S  DEATH  31 


Reversal  of  Fortune.  —  When  Chaucer  was  working  at  the 
Legend  and  planning  the  Canterbury  Tales,  he  was  still  an 
official  of  the  crown  —  Controller  of  Customs  in  London. 


Poets'  Corner,  Westminster  Abbey. 
The  bust  in  the  foreground  is  of  Longfellow. 

In  1386  he  represented  the  county  of  Kent  in  Parliament; 
but  from  now  on  his  fortunes  were  at  a  low  ebb  for  many 
years,  probably  through  no  incompetence,  and  through  no 


32  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

fault  save  his  attachment  to  John  of  Gaunt.  John  lost  his 
influence  with  the  King,  and  Chaucer  was  deprived  of  his 
position. 

Not  long  after  this  Philippa  Chaucer  died,  and  her  pension 
was  discontinued.  He  was  compelled  to  dispose  of  his  ow;n 
pensions  for  a  fixed  sum ;  and  after  receiving  in  1394  another 
pension  of  £20  a  year  had  frequently  to  procure  loans  before 
the  payments  were  due.  During  these  years  of  financial  em- 
barrassment he  wrote  little ;  no  long  work  except  the  Astro- 
labe, a  prose  treatise  on  astronomy  written  for  "  little  Lewis 
my  son,"  about  whom  we  know  nothing  more. 

Last  Days.  —  With  the  accession  of  Henry  IV  in  1399, 
Chaucer's  prospects  improved.  Another  substantial  pen- 
sion was  granted  to  him,  on  the  basis  of  which  he  leased  a 
house  in  Westminster.  Fate  did  not  allow  him  a  long  resi- 
dence here :  by  the  best  information  we  have,  it  appears  that 
he  died  in  less  than  a  year  —  on  October  25,  1400.  He  was 
the  first  poet  to  be  buried  in  that  portion  of  the  Abbey  now 
known  as  Poets'  Corner. 


CHAPTER  III 

FROM   THE   DEATH   OF   CHAUCER   TO   THE  ACCESSION 
OF  ELIZABETH    (140Q-1558) 

1.   The  Fifteenth  Century 

Fifteenth-century  Literature.  —  Fifteenth-century  litera- 
ture was  strikingly  inferior  to  that  of  the  fourteenth.  No 
poet  appeared  who  showed  more  than  occasional  traces  of 
power.  Chaucer's  professed  disciples,  Lydgate  and  Occleve, 
failed  utterly  to  give  evidence  of  profit  by  study  of  their 
master.  Some  Scotch  poets,  notably  William  Dunbar  and 
Gavin  Douglas,  showed  talent  of  a  somewhat  higher  order ; 
but  they  would  scarcely  deserve  mention  except  in  a  rather 
barren  period.  With  a  single  exception,  Malory,  no  prose 
writer  appeared  who  would  be  read  with  pleasure  to-day ; 
and  in  the  case  of  Malory  our  interest  is  rather  in  his  sub- 
ject-matter and  the  use  of  his  work  by  poets  of  later  ages 
than  in  any  great  literary  merit  of  his  own. 

A  Period  of  Unrest.  —  The  century  was  marked  by  much 
unrest,  yet  was  without  any  great  movement  or  accomplish- 
ment. The  insurrection  of  the  Percies  and  the  religious  per- 
secutions under  Henry  IV ;  the  war  with  France,  begun  by 
Henry  V,  and  brought  to  an  inglorious  close  under  Henry 
VI ;  Jack  Cade's  rebellion,  under  the  last-named  sovereign ; 
the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the  civil  conflict  which  distracted  the 
country  from  1455  to  1485 :  —  these  events  occupied  the 
people  with  other  things  than  literature. 

33 


34  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

War  does,  it  is  true,  often  bring  out  the  best  there  is  in  a 
people,  including  fit  record  in  prose  and  verse  of  their  deeds ; 
but  England's  wars  and  fightings  in  the  fifteenth  century 
were  not  of  that  sort.  The  Percies  fought  because  the 
King  did  not  live  up  to  his  pre-coronation  promises  to  them ; 
Henry  V  fought  as  a  means  of  gaining  wealth,  and  at  the 
same  time  quieting  his  own  dominions;  the  Wars  of  the 
Roses  were  the  outcome  of  the  disregard  by  Henry  IV  of 
the  direct  order  of  succession  to  the  throne;  Cade's  rebel- 
lion, the  result  of  restrictions  of  the  franchise,  was  utterly 
lacking  in  heroic  elements. 

Importance  of  the  Period.  —  It  must  not,  however,  be 
assumed  that  this  period  is  unimportant  in  English  liter- 
ature. A  great  number  of  those  poems  known  as  "  popular  " 
ballads  {i.e.,  poems  originating  with  the  people,  the  folk), 
seem  to  have  been  committed  to  writing  at  this  time,  though 
many  may  have  been  composed  earlier.  An  event  of  the 
greatest  significance  to  literature  took  place  about  the  middle 
of  the  century — the  invention  of  printing  from  movable  types. 
The  invention  reached  England  about  a  quarter  of  a  century 
later ;  and  before  the  year  1500  nearly  400  books  had  been 
printed.  The  use  that  subsequent  writers  made  of  Malory's 
great  work  on  the  legends  of  Arthur  has  been  mentioned. 
Through  the  century  also  the  drama  was  making  slow  but 
sure  progress. 

The  "  Popular  "  Ballad :  (i)  Definition.  —  In  taking  up 
the  ballads  the  first  thing  necessary  is  a  definition.  We  are 
here  not  concerned  with  such  poems  as  Tennyson's  The 
Revenge  (sub-title,  "  A  Ballad  of  the  Fleet  ") ;  or  Kipling's 
Ballad  of  "East  and  West;  or  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's  Ballad 
of  the  Oysterman;  or  any  of  the  poems  in  the  volume  of  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  called  Lyrical  Ballads.     By  "  ballad  " 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH  35 

in  this  book  we  mean  a  narrative  poem  of  limited  extent, 
unknown  authorship,  originally  intended  to  be  sung,  and 
handed  down  among  the  folk  by  oral  tradition.  In  the 
great  collection  of  Professor  Child  are  more  than  three 
hundred  ballads,  of  which  very  few  can  be  traced  to  a 
date  earlier  than  1400,  and  very  few  are  believed  to  have 
originated  after  1500. 

(2)  Subjects.  —  The  subjects  of  the  ballads  are  as  varied 
as  the  interests  of  the  age  that  produced  them.  Many  deal 
with  the  outlaws,  particularly  Robin  Hood  and  his  "  merry 
men,"  who  robbed  the  rich  and  befriended  the  poor.  Many 
deal  with  various  aspects  of  the  supernatural ;  as  Thomas 
Rymer,  the  hero  of  which  was  carried  off  by  a  fairy,  or  Kemp 
Owyne,  telling  a  story  of  disenchantment  by  kissing.  Great 
battles  are  the  subjects  of  not  a  few,  of  which  the  most  famous 
perhaps  is  The  Battle  of  Otterhurn.  One  of  the  best  is  Sir 
Patrick  Spens,  recounting  the  ready  self-sacrifice  of  a  Scotch 
sailor  knight  for  his  king.  There  is  much  more  tragedy  than 
comedy  in  the  ballads,  reflecting  doubtless  an  age  when  love 
and  hate  were  strong,  when  feuds  were  numerous,  and  when 
life  was  held  not  so  dear. 

(3)  Style.  —  As  to  style,  the  ballads  are  notably  direct 
and  simple.  They  often  begin  abruptly,  apparently  assum- 
ing among  the  auditors  knowledge  of  events  or  stories  un- 
known to-day.  The  narrative  is  often  so  condensed  that 
much  reading  between  the  lines  is  necessary ;  and  not  sel- 
dom the  ending  is  as  abrupt  as  was  the  beginning  of  the 
story.  Figures  of  speech  are  few,  and  the  vocabulary  is 
that  of  everyday  conversation  rather  than  of  men  of  letters. 
Simple  rhyme  and  stanza  forms  are  the  rule. 

Still  another  characteristic  that  even  the  casual  reader  of 
a  few  ballads  would  observe  is  repetition.     In  all  five  stanzas 


36  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

of  Lord  Randal,  for  example,  the  four  lines  are  partly  alike ; 
the  first  line  ends,  "  Lord  Randal,  my  son  " ;  the  seeond, 
"my  handsome  young  man";  the  third,  "mother,  make 
my  bed  soon  " ;  the  fourth,  "  fain  would  lie  down."  The 
three  stanzas  of  Bonnie  George  Campbell  end  with  the  line  — 

'*  But  never  cam  he !  " 

(4)  Communal  Origin.  —  Even  so  brief  a  treatment  of 
ballads  as  this  should  not  end  without  an  addition  to  the 
definition  given  above.  Not  only  is  the  typical  ballad  of  un- 
known authorship:  the  theory  finding  almost  universal 
acceptance  to-day  is  that  it  is  of  "  communal  origin."  By 
this  is  meant  that  the  ballad  has  its  beginning  in  the  "  com- 
munal dance,"  the  meeting  of  the  tribe ;  and  that  the  form 
of  it  we  possess  is  due  to  a  singer,  "  a  skilful  recording  secre- 
tary, one  might  say,  who  stands  between  us  and  the  com- 
munity." ^ 

Some  modern  writers  —  Coleridge,  for  example  —  have  to 
some  extent  caught  the  trick  of  ballad  writing;  but  The 
Ancient  Mariner  is  clearly  the  work  of  one  individual  writing 
in  a  more  or  less  literary  language  for  distinctly  educated 
readers.  The  gap,  therefore,  is  wide  between  it  and  the 
genuine  ballad,  with  its  anonymous,  collective  authorship, 
and  its  uncultured  audience. 

The  introduction  of  printing  may  on  first  thought  sound 
like  a  contradiction  of  the  statement  above  that  the  fifteenth 
century  was  marked  by  no  great  accomplishment  in  Eng- 

1  F.  B.  Gummere,  Old  English  Ballads,  page  Ixviii.  Other  writings 
of  Professor  Gummere  necessary  to  any  extended  study  of  ballads  are : 
The  Beginnings  of  Poetry,  The  Popular  Ballad,  and  volume  II,  chapter 
XVII,  of  the  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature .  Professor  Kit- 
tredge's  introduction  to  The  English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads,  Cam- 
bridge Edition,  should  also  be  read. 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH 


37 


land.  Since,  however,  the  art  was  practised  in  seventy  cities 
of  eight  other  countries  before  the  first  press  was  set  up  in 
London,  it  does  not  seem  necessary  to  modify  our  first  state- 
ment. Nevertheless,  the  time  when  the  first  books  in  the 
English  language  were  printed  in  England  is  worthy  of  note, 
as  is  the  name  of  the  first  printer,  William  Caxton. 


^^^^^^n»'}  hR  rf!                               n^^^l^^ 

■^H    '■  ■-■■■■■*  ■■"i"'-                  f           '♦.  .       ■ 

Caxton  and  his  Printers  Reading  his  First  Proof. 
From  an  old  print. 

William  Caxton  (i422?-i49o). — Caxton  was  born  in 
Kent  about  1422.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  he  was 
apprenticed  to  a  London  cloth  merchant.  A  few  years  later 
he  went  to  the  continent,  and  subsequently  became  head  of 
an  English  trading  company  at  Bruges  (Bruzh).  Leaving 
this  business  he  entered  the  service  of  Margaret,  Duchess  of 
Burgundy,  and  there  began  the  series  of  translations  which 


38  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

give  him  a  place  in  literature  as  well  as  in  the  history  of 
printing. 

At  Cologne  in  1471  he  had  his  first  sight  of  a  press ;  and 
three  or  four  years  later,  probably  at  Bruges,  he  turned  out 
the  first  book  printed  in  English  —  The  Recuyell  (Collection) 
of  the  Histories  of  Troy,  the  first  of  the  translations  just  men- 
tioned. In  1476  he  set  up  a  press  in  London,  near  West- 
minster Abbey;  and  the  following  year  issued  from  this 
press  the  Dictes  and  Notable  Wise  Sayings  of  the  Philosophers, 
the  first  book  which  we  can  certainly  say  was  printed  in 
England. 

During  the  fourteen  years  between  this  event  and  his 
death  Caxton  printed  nearly  one  hundred  works,  of  which 
a  number  were  translations  made  by  himself.  He  recog- 
nized the  unfortunate  condition  of  the  English  language 
arising  from  lack  of  uniformity,  and  in  the  preface  to  a 
version  of  the  Mneid  set  forth  in  entertaining  fashion  the 
differences  of  dialect  and  the  difficulties  arising  therefrom. 

Sir  Thomas  Malory.  —  Among  the  works  early  printed 
by  Caxton  was  Morte  d' Arthur,  1485,  the  great  work  of  Sir 
Thomas  Malory  already  alluded  to.  Of  Sir  Thomas's  life 
virtually  nothing  is  known.  Since  the  publication  in  1897 
of  a  paper  by  Professor  Kittredge  ^  it  has  seemed  reasonable 
to  identify  the  author  of  the  Morte  with  a  Sir  Thomas  Malory 
who  represented  Warwickshire  in  Parliament  in  1445,  and 
who  died  in  1470. 

"  Morte  d'Arthur."  —  Whatever  the  facts  regarding  the 
author's  life,  his  book  is  of  intense  and  lasting  interest.  In 
it  we  are  informed  that  the  matter  came  from  "  the  French 
book,"  as  if  it  had  but  one  source.     Scholars  have,  however, 

'  "Who  was  Sir  Thomas  Malory?"  in  [Harvard]  Studies  and  Notes, 
vol.  V. 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH  39 

discovered  a  number  of  sources,  and  it  is  properly  described 
as  "  a  mosaic  of  adaptations,"  a  fact  which  explains  the  gaps 
in  the  narrative  and  other  causes  of  confusion.  For  some 
parts  no  sources  have  been  found,  and  for  others  Malory  did 
not  sele.ct  what  a  compiler  would  to-day  consider  the  best 
soiuce.  An  example  of  the  latter  proceeding  is  his  drawing 
of  Sir  Gawain  along  the  lines  of  the  French  prose  romances, 
in  which  he  is  a  far  from  admirable  character.  In  the  verse 
romances  he  is  "  brave,  chivalrous,  loyally  faithful  to  his 
plighted  word,  scrupulously  heedful  of  his  own  and  others' 
honour  "  (J.  L.  Weston). 

We  are  indebted,  however,  to  the  Morte  for  many  Arthur 
stories  and  versions  of  stories  not  extant  elsewhere.  In  the 
opinion  of  many  critics  also  we  have  from  Malory  the  first 
piece  of  modern  English  prose,  the  first  work  showing  "  the 
rhythmical  flow  and  gracious  music  of  which  our  language 
is  so  richly  capable."  Though  lacking  a  sense  of  humor, 
Malory  possesses  real  power  in  the  field  of  pathos.  As  a 
whole  the  Morte  must  be  called  a  rambling  book,  but  it 
contains  many  eifective  passages  in  a  rapid  and  direct  style. 
It  is  a  real  achievement  to  have  made  so  excellent  a  compila- 
tion of  such  varied,  extensive,  and  at  times  inharmonious 
materials. 

2.   The  Renaissance 

The  coming  of  the  printing  press  was  the  first  clear  evidence 
that  a  new  movement  called  the  Renaissance^  {i.e.,  "New 
Birth  ")  had  reached  England.  This  movement,  which  may 
be  said  to  have  had  its  beginning  in  Italy  about  the  fourteenth 
century,  spread  over  the  whole  of  Western  Europe  during  the 
two  centuries  following.     Its  main  factor  was,  in  the  words  of 

'  A  French  word,  from  the  verb  renattre,  meaning  "  to  be  bom  again." 


40 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Sidney  Lee, '  "  a  passion  for  extending  the  limits  of  human 
knowledge,  and  for  employing  man's  capabilities  to  new 
and  better  advantage  than  of  old."  It  manifested  itself 
not  only  in  literature,  but  in  art  (Michael  Angelo,  Raphael, 

Albert  Durer),  in  reli- 
gious thought  (Luther), 
in  science  (Copernicus, 
Galileo),  in  exploration 
(Columbus,  Vasco  da 
Gama,  Vespucci,  Drake, 
Hawkins). 


Versatility  the  Key- 
note.  —  Although  in 
these  pages  we  are  in- 
terested chiefly  in  its 
manifestation  in  litera- 
ture, it  should  be  re- 
membered that  few 
great  men  of  the  Ren- 
aissance confined  their 
efforts  to  one  line. 
Michael  Angelo  was 
architect,  engineer,  and 
poet,  as  well  as  painter. 
"  Versatility  of  interest 
and  experience  was  the 
accepted  token  of  hu- 
man excellence."  Fran- 


The  River  Cam. 
Tower  of  St.  .John's  CJollege  in  the  distance. 


CIS  Bacon's  words  —  "  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  for  my  prov- 
ince "  —  form  an  appropriate  motto  for  numerous  others. 


»  Oreat  Engliahmen  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  page  3. 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH 


41 


Beginnings.  —  Nothing  approaching  an  exact  date  for  the 
beginning  of  the  Renaissance  can  be  given.  Some  say  that 
the  EngHsh  Chaucer  and  Wiclif  are  as  truly  of  the  move- 
ment as  are  Luther  and  Spenser.  Others  afe  inclined  to  re- 
gard Dante  (1265-1321)  as  the  first  to  show  the  change  in 
human  thought  and  aspirations.  Still  others  would  find 
"  forerunners  "  of  the  movement  even  in  the  twelfth  century, 
as,  for  example,  Abelard  (1079-1142),  and  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi  (1182-1226).  From  the  point  of  view  of  influence  on 
English  literature  of  the  sixteenth  century  we  need  not  look 
further  than  fourteenth- 
century  Italy  —  to  Petrarch, 
the  sonnet-writer.  The  first 
English  writers  clearly  to  be 
called  Renaissance  figures 
are  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  and 
Henry  Howard,  Earl  of 
Surrey. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  (1503- 
1542).  —  Wyatt  was  born  in 
Kent  in  1503.  He  attended 
St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, from  which  he  re- 
ceived a  degree  at  the  age 
of  fifteen.  He  became  a 
member  of  the  household 
of  Henry  VIII,  and  was 
knighted.  An  extensive  acquaintance  with  Europe  came 
to  him  as  a  result  of  appointment  on  various  embassies  — 
to  France,  Spain,  Italy,  and  the  Netherlands.  Like  most 
of  Henry's  followers  he  had  periods  of  disfavor,  was  several 
times  imprisoned,  and  quite  possibly  would  have  travelled 


Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 


42  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Henry's  well-worn  path  from  the  prison  to  the  block  had  not 
a  natural  death  taken  him  off  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (i5i7?-i547).  —  Surrey 
was  born  somewhat  later  than  Wyatt  —  about  1517,  and 
was  of  noble  blood.  He,  like  Wyatt,  visited  Europe  on  gov- 
ernment business,  not  as  diplomat,  but  as  soldier.  Shortly 
after  a  military  reverse  of  his  command  he  fell  under  the 
suspicion  of  the  King,  and  was  imprisoned  and  executed  at 
the  age  of  thirty. 

Wyatt  and  Surrey  in  "  Tottel's  Miscellany."  —  Neither 
Wyatt's  nor  Surrey's  poems  were  published  by  the  writers. 
They  were  written  for  their  "  private  friends,"  as  were  Shak- 
spere's  "  sugared  sonnets  "  somewhat  later.  They  appeared 
first  in  Tottel's  Miscellany,  a  collection  of  poems  by  various 
authors,  published  in  1557,  the  year  before  Elizabeth  came 
to  the  throne.  Though,  as  is  evident  from  the  dates  of  their 
lives,  Surrey's  and  Wyatt's  poems  were  written  from  ten  to 
twenty-five  years  before  publication  of  the  Miscellany,  this 
volume  is  generally  regarded  as  marking  the  beginning  of  the 
great  Elizabethan  Age,  and,  indeed  of  modern  English 
poetry. 

Wyatt's  Poetry.  —  Wyatt's  distinguished  position  in  Eng- 
lish poetry  is  due  to  his  introduction  of  the  sonnet,  a  very 
restricted  form  of  verse  which  had  been  highly  developed  by 
Petrarch.  It  consists  of  fourteen  ten-syllable  lines,  falling 
into  two  parts  of  eight  and  six  lines,  and  developing  a  single 
thought.  Wyatt  adopted  the  Italian's  subject  as  well  as 
his  form.  Nearly  all  his  poems  deal  with  love;  and  since 
they  do  so  after  a  quite  conventional  fashion,  one  is  led 
to  the  conclusion  that  behind  them  is  no  true  or  deep 
feeling. 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH 


43 


Titles  of  some  of  Wyatt's  sonnets  will  indicate  the  kind 
of  subjects :  "  The  Lover  Waxeth  Wiser,  and  Will  not  Die 
for  Affection,"  "  How  the  Lover  Perisheth  in  his  Delight,  as 
the  Fly  in  the  Fire,"  "  Description  of  the  Contrarious  Pas- 
sions in  a  Lover,"  "  Complaint  for  True  Love  Unrequited." 
His  rhymes  are  not  always  good,  and  his  lines  are  frequently 
rough ;  but  he  often  shows  real  poetic  thought  and  power  of 


Tower  of  London. 
Scene  of  execution  of  great  numbers  of  political  offenders  in  England. 

phrasing,  which  would  give  him  a  not  unworthy  place  in 
literature  apart  from  his  great  service  in  introducing  the 
sonnet-form  to  English  poets. 

Surrey's  Poetry.  —  While  Surrey  wrote  sonnets  superior 
in  many  respects  to  Wyatt's,  his  place  in  literature  rests  on 
other  grounds.  For  his  introduction  of  blank  verse  into 
English,  and  for  his  occasional  realistic  presentation  of  na- 
ture he  merits  a  high  place  among  the  beginners  of  the 
English  Renaissance.     The  latter  is  well  illustrated  by  his 


44  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

sonnet,  "  Description  of  Spring,"  and  by  some  passages  in 
the  poem  called  "  Prisoned  in  Windsor." 

Blank  verse,  like  the  sonnet,  was  not  the  invention  of  its 
first  English  user,  but  a  borrowing  from  the  Italian.  While 
the  Italian  use  of  it  is  found,  as  is  Surrey's,  in  a  translation 
of  the  ^neid,  the  English  form  is  not  a  mere  imitation,  but 
has  undeniable  individuality.  When  we  try  to  imagine  the 
Elizabethan  drama  in  any  other  metrical  form,  we  can 
realize  our  debt  to  Surrey  for  bringing  it  to  his  countrymen. 
Blank  verse  has  also  been  used  in  most  of  the  really  great 
long  poems  in  the  language,  from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  to 
Tennyson's  Idylls;  and  it  is  generally  regarded  as  the  most 
characteristic  verse  form  of  English. 

Indirect  Italian  Influence.  —  Italy  exerted  a  strong  in- 
fluence in  the  Renaissance  in  England  not  only  by  such  direct 
means  as  have  been  set  forth  above,  but  in  indirect  ways 
also.  At  the  fall  of  Constantinople  in  1453  Greek  scholars 
fled  to  Italy  with  their  precious  manuscripts,  which  gave  the 
West  its  first  direct  acquaintance  with  the  Greek  language 
and  literature.  Italian  scholars  were  eagerly  sought  out  by 
students  visiting  Italy,  and  one  was  induced  before  1500  to 
begin  teaching  Greek  at  Oxford. 

The  place  in  the  Renaissance  of  this  concern  with  the  past 
is  a  large  one,  showing  most  readily  to  the  young  student, 
perhaps,  in  Shakspere's  use  of  Plutarch  in  the  Roman  plays. 
Along  with  the  interest  in  Greek  antiquity  went  a  similar 
interest  in  British  antiquity,  evident  in  Shakspere's  Lear, 
Macbeth,  Cymbeline,  all  based  on  legendary  British  history. 

Religious  Aspect  of  the  Renaissance.  —  An  important 
aspect  of  the  English  Renaissance  not  clearly  due  to  any 
outside  influence  is  the  religious.  Luther's  defiance  of  the 
Pope  antedated  by  seventeen  years,  it  is  true,  Tyndale's 


FROM  CHAUCER  TO  ELIZABETH 


45 


translation  of  the  Bible  (1534) ;  but  the  translator's  plans 
were  forming  many  years  before,  and  it  does  not  appear 
that  Tyndale  had  any  other  inspiration  or  spur  than  his 
own  "  passion  for  ex- 
tending the  limits  of 
human  knowledge"  in 
a  direction  necessa- 
rily of  benefit  to  man- 
kind. His  translation 
served  its  religious  pur- 
pose chiefly  by  being 
more  accurate  than  any 
then  existing.  Its  fur- 
ther contribution  to  the 
New  Birth  consisted  in 
its  merit  as  English, 
wherein  it  marks  an 
important  point  in 
the  history  of  English 
prose.  Tyndale  has 
been  called  by  some 
"  the  father  of  modern 
English  prose ;  "  a  not 
undeserved  title  if,  as 
one    writer     says,     he 


m 


■  mtnt  wt  ontc  agarnc  cmmrto  bp  U)U-  "^"^^^ 

I  tv.iiu  3E:in&(ttc :  mlKrttnioisd&DcDa  ! 

"iKcrffarpt  Ciitcnobtrui  caftipano 

ugDtcivt  marc  uc  fouDcaiiy  fto^ 

ft>f  roiitaniQ  ui  tlit  fourt 

liJuiWgcUftfSf'anDia 

rt)cJlftrsof:t)c 

:apoflUs. 

r5i.fiBa(rfKUj. 


%\)t  oMitf  tiK  aipomes. 

■Jcfiis  favc  fiParftcttj. 

3o  vc  into  aU  tOc  U>0!itif  -ana  p;tarDt 

fOtsWD  tpftjmgfsto  all  rrramns/ 

l)ttl>ar  btlfiittftanOiaeaptv 

ttD/TDaiDcfatuD- 

tt&.Tnttij  ffl  tftt  pm  of  ouw  S.o:Oe 
001'.  VB.SD.atrt.ttJCl'jI. 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Tyndale's 
Testament. 

(New  York  Public  Library.) 


"  fixed   the  character  of  the  English  translations  [of  the 
Bible]  forevermore."  ^ 


1  Professor  Whitney,  in  Cambridge  History,  III,  48.  It  is  only  proper 
to  state  that  scholars  are  not  unanimous  in  crediting  Tyndale  with  the 
superior  merits  of  the  translation  bearing  his  name.  To  the  present 
writer  Tyndale's  claims  seem  unquestionably  the  best. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FROM  THE  ACCESSION  OF  ELIZABETH  TO  THE  CLOSING 
OF  THE  THEATRES    (1558-1642) 

Introduction.  —  It  must  not  be  supposed  by  the  student 
that  the  Elizabethan  Age  in  English  literature,  often  called 
the  Golden  Age,  reached  its  high  development  early  in 
Elizabeth's  reign.  Two  full  decades  of  preparation  were 
yet  to  pass  before  the  appearance  of  the  first  great  creative 
works  of  the  age  —  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calender  and  Lyly's 
Euphiies. 

The  Preparatory  Period.  —  Although  this  preparatory 
period  was  of  significance  in  broadening  the  intellectual 
view  of  the  whole  nation,  its  greatest  value  consisted  in  its 
providing  material  for  the  drama,  the  most  characteristic 
literary  form  of  the  time.  Compilations  of  British  chroni- 
cles, crude  but  valuable  dramas  built  up  on  classic  models, 
translations  of  noted  works  of  antiquity  and  of  current  works 
of  interest  in  several  European  languages,  made  accessible 
subject-matter  for  the  dramatists  which  left  the  full  force 
of  their  genius  free  to  be  expended  on  adaptation  and  re- 
shaping to  suit  English  spirit  and  taste. 

Of  the  chroniclers  the  most  noted  during  this  time  were 
Grafton,  Stowe,  Camden,  and  greatest  of  all,  Ralph  Holin- 
shed.  Of  the  plays  on  classic  models  need  be  mentioned  only 
the  tragedy  Gorboduc,  and  the  comedy,  Ralph  Roister  Doister. 
Before  1575  nine  books  of  the   Mneid  had   been  put  into 

46 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     47 


English  verse  by  Thomas  Phaer;  three  tragedies  of  Seneca 
by  Jasper  Heywood  and  one  by  Neville ;  the  Metamorphoses 
of  Ovid  by  Golding,  and  the  Epistles  by  Turberville. 

The  best-known  collection  of  Continental  stories  (best- 
known  because  used  by  Shakspere)  is  Paynter's  Palace  of 
Pleasure,  the  alliterative  title  of  which  seems  to  have  sug- 
gested one  used  later  by  Turberville  —  Ten  Tragical  Tales 
out  of  Sundry  Italians.  (Verse  collections  similarly  named 
are  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  and  the  Gorgeous  Gallery 
of  Gallant  Inventions.)  In  the  same  year  with  The  Shep- 
herd's Calender  and  Euphucs  appeared  what  is  to  the  moderns 
perhaps  the  most  important  of  all  these  translations  —  Sir 
Thomas  North's  Plutarch's 
Lives,  to  which  we  owe  Shak- 


spere s 
plays. 


Greek    and    Roman 


The  Period  of  Splendor : 
(i)  The  Queen.  — The  thirty 
years  following  this  prepara- 
tory period  are  made  splendid 
not  only  by  the  literature 
produced,  but  by  the  develop- 
ment of  an  intense  and  vigor- 
ous national  life.  Elizabeth, 
the  "  man-minded  offset  "  of 
Henry  VIII,  possessed  the 
strength  and  talents  needed  to  guide  the  nation  through  a 
troubled  time.  And  the  nation  believed  in  her :  to  her  sub- 
jects she  seemed,  says  the  historian  J.  R.  Green,"  the  em- 
bodiment of  dauntless  resolution." 

The  reigns  of  her  Protestant  brother,  Edward  VI,  and 
her  Roman  Catholic  sister,  Mary,  had  left  the  English  peo- 


QuEEN  Elizabeth. 


48  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

pie  divided  into  two  opposing  parties,  each  suspicious  of 
the  other.  Elizabeth  set  herself  to  bring  them  together ; 
and  her  efforts  met  with  success  when  Philip  II  of  Spain 
attempted  to  invade  England.  Then  it  was  that  "  patriot- 
ism proved  stronger  than  religious  fanaticism  in  the  hearts 
of  the  English  Catholics ;  "  and  their  loyalty  decided  the 
fate  of  Philip's  scheme. 

(2)  The  People.  —  One  result  of  the  Renaissance  was,  natu- 
rally, a  great  advance  of  the  people  as  a  whole  in  knowledge 
and  intelligence.  Accompanying  this  was  a  great  increase  in 
prosperity  and  in  freedom  of  individual  action.  A  man's 
chances  in  life  were  no  longer  limited  by  his  rank  or  his  purse. 

A  Yorkshire  yeoman's  son,  Roger  Ascham,  devoted  him- 
self to  learning,  and  became  tutor  to  the  Queen.  A  boy 
of  humble  birth,  apprenticed  at  an  early  age  on  a  small 
coasting  vessel,  developed  a  passion  for  exploration,  was 
aided  by  the  Queen,  and  is  known  in  history  as  Sir  Francis 
Drake,  Admiral,  circumnavigator  of  the  earth.  A  War- 
wickshire peasant,  who  in  some  way  got  to  London  when 
he  was  about  twenty-one  years  old,  obtained  work  of  some 
sort  in  a  theatre ;  and  ten  or  twelve  years  later  he  was 
acknowledged  the  foremost  writer  of  both  comedies  and 
tragedies  in  English. 

(3)  Manner  of  Living.  —  The  national  prosperity  expressed 
itself  in  many  ways.  Houses  were  built  more  substantially. 
There  was  a  great  increase  in  the  comforts  of  life ;  and 
among  all  classes  except  the  very  poor  there  was  a  great 
variety  of  food,  especially  meats.  Great  care  and  expense 
were  given  to  dress,  even  by  yeomen  and  men  of  low  rank. 
There  was  a  great  fondness  for  amusements  and  a  widespread 
indulgence  in  them  ;  facts  which  doubtless  did  much  to  make 
the  high  development  of  the  drama  possible. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     49 

To  summarize,  it  may  be  said  that  the  chief  national 
characteristic,  found  in  all  classes  from  the  Queen  and  her 
advisers  to  the  humblest  peasants,  was  a  "  youthful  exuber- 
ance of  spirit."  The  Age  of  Elizabeth  deserves  the  descrip- 
tion "  Merry  England  "  more  than  any  period  before  or 
since.  It  is  not  surprising  that  from  such  a  period  came  the 
nation's   greatest   literature. 


Rlixs  of  Kexilwokth  Castle. 

Here  one  of  the  most  splendid  entertsiinments  of  Elizabeth  took  place. 
See  Scott's  Kenilworth. 

The  first  writer  whom  we  are  to  take  up  is  not  one  of  the 
greatest.  He  fills  only  a  small  niche;  but  we  should  add 
that  he  fills  it  completely.  This  writer,  whose  field  is  that 
of  prose,  is 

John  Lyly  (i554?-i6o6?). — John  Lyly,  one  of  whose 
works  has  been  named  as  marking  the  end  of  the  period  of 
preparation,  was  born  in  Kent  about  the  year  1554.  Nothing 
is  positively  known  of  his  life  until  he  became  a  student  at 


50  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Magdalen  College  (Maudlin),  Oxford,  from  which  he  was 
graduated  A.B.  and  A.M.  In  1579,  the  year  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  Euphues,  Lyly  was  connected  with  the  uni- 
versity at  Cambridge.  Later  he  wrote  nine  comedies  of  the 
"  romantic "  type,  the  direct  ancestors  of  Shakspere's  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and  As  You  Like  it.  There  are 
no  other  known  facts  about  Lyly's  life,  though  some  have 
identified  him  with  a  man  who  served  several  years  in  Par- 
liament.    It  is  generally  believed  that  he  died  in  1606. 

Lyly's  importance  in  literature  arises  from  his  romantic 
comedies,  his  lyrics,  and  his  popularizing  of  the  prose  style 
known  as  "  euphuism."  One  of  his  best-known  and  de- 
lightful lyrics  is  that  appearing  in  his  play,  Alexander  and 
Campaspe,  and  beginning: 

"Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 
At  cards  for  kisses ;   Cupid  paid." 

"  Euphues,"  and  Euphuism.  —  Euphues,  or  the  Anatomy 
of  Wit  (1579),  and  its  sequel,  Euphues  and  His  England, 
form  together  a  sort  of  novel.  The  main  story  in  the  first  is 
of  a  young  Athenian,  Euphues,  who  goes  to  Naples,  becomes 
a  great  friend  of  one  Philautus,  falls  in  love  with  Lucilla, 
Philautus's  betrothed,  and  is  rejected  by  her.  In  the  sequel 
Philautus  and  Euphues  visit  England,  Philautus  has  an  un- 
fortunate love  affair  and  then  a  fortunate  one,  Euphues  in- 
dulges in  extravagant  praise  of  England  and  Englishwomen 
(especially  Elizabeth),  and  departs. 

The  story,  it  will  be  seen,  is  slight,  and  the  bare  outline 
does  not  promise  much  entertainment.  As  a  whole,  Euphues 
is  not  what  one  would  to-day  call  a  "  readable  "  book.  Read 
in  brief  extracts,  however,  it  is  of  not  a  little  interest  on 
the  side  of  style,  of  which  the  striking  features  are  alliter- 
ation, balanced  phrases,  and  far-fetched  figures. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     51 


Naples  is  said  to  be  "  a  ^lace  of  more  /pleasure  than  /profit, 
and  yet  of  more  profit  than  piety."  Elizabeth,  we  read, 
"  was  called  from  a  prisoner  to  be  a  prince,  from  the  castle 
to  the  crown."  And  later :  "  God  for  his  mercy's  sake,  Christ 
for  his  merit's  sake,  the  Holy  Ghost  for  his  name's  sake" 
grant  the  Queen  long  life,  because  the  writer  saw  her  "  to 
surpass  all  in  beauty,  and  yet  a  virgin,  to  excel  all  in  piety, 
and  yet  a  prince,  to  be  inferior  to  none  in  all  the  lineaments 
of  the  body,  and  yet  superior  to  every  one  inall  gifts  of  the 
mind."  '*  I  lived,"  says 
Euphues,  "  as  the  elephant 
doth  by  air,  with  the  sight 
of  my  lady." 

Popularity  of  the  Style. 
—  This  sort  of  writing  be- 
came the  fashion :  almost 
every  writer,  sometimes 
consciously,  sometimes  un- 
consciously, drops  into  the 
style.  Shakspere  has  not  a 
few  euphuistic  speeches  in 
his  best  comedies ;  and  it  is 
by  no  means  certain,  as  it 
was  formerly  said  to  be,  that 

in   Love's   Labour's   Lost  he  Sir  Philip  Sydney. 

ridicules  the  popular  style.        ^ost  romantic  figure  of  the  Renais- 

_.    _.,.,.     „.  .  ,  sance  in  England. 

Sir  Phihp  Sidney  (1554  ?- 

1586).  —  An  excellent  example  of  the  many-sided  life  lived 
by  gifted  Elizabethans  is  that  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Man  of 
letters,  distinguished  in  several  lines,  traveler,  diplomat,  and 
courtier,  he  crowded  into  a  life  of  thirty-two  years  action  and 
accomplishment  enough  for  an  average  life  twice  as  long. 


52 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


He,  like  Lyly,  was  born  in  Kent,  probably  in  the  same 
year,  but  unlike  Lyly,  was  of  distinguished  ancestry.  After 
a  preparatory  course  in  one  of  the  leading  English  schools, 
Sidney  entered  Christ  Church  College,  Oxford,  at  the  age 

of  fourteen,  not  a  con- 
spicuously early  age  for 
that  day.  An  epidemic 
in  Oxford  caused  him 
to  leave  without  a  de- 
gree, and  he  did  not  re- 
turn. For  four  years 
he  travelled,  visiting 
under  the  most  ad- 
vantageous conditions 
France,  Germany,  Aus- 
tria, and  Italy,  and 
coming  under  the  influ- 
ence of  every  expression 
of  Renaissance  spirit  in 
the  Continent. 


Varying  Fortunes.  — 
Returning  to  England, 
he  became  a  prominent 
figure  at  Court,  and  a 
year  or  so  later  was  in- 
trusted with  govern- 
mental business  which 
took  him  to  Vienna  a 
second  time,  to  Heidelberg,  and  to  Antwerp.  Falling  into 
royal  disfavor  for  a  time,  he  retired  to  the  country,  and  during 
his  retirement  wrote  Arcadia,  a  pastoral  romance,  and  De- 
fence of  Poesy,  a  critical  essay.     In  1583  he  was  knighted, 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  the  Arcadia. 

This  copy  belonged  to  Sidney's  sister, 
the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  for  whom  he 
wrote  it. 

(Widener    Memorial    Library,     Harvard 
University.) 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     53 

and  married  to  the  fourteen-year-old  daughter  of  the  Queen's 
secretary.  It  does  not  appear  to  have  been  a  love  match ; 
and  it  does  appear  that  he  had  previously  loved  and  been 
loved  by  Penelope  Devereaux,  daughter  of  the  first  Earl  of 
Essex,  and  afterward  the  wife  of  Lord  Rich.  It  was  to  Pe- 
nelope that  Sidney  addressed  most  of  the  hundred  and  odd 
sonnets  entitled  Astro phel  and  Stella. 

Heroism.  —  In  1585  he  went  with  an  English  party  to 
help  the  Dutch  against  the  Spanish,  was  mortally  wounded 
the  following  year,  and  died  within  a  month.  The  oft-re- 
peated story  of  his  death  is  a  classic  incident  of  heroism  and 
self-denial.  Being  very  thirsty,  he  was  about  to  drink,  when 
seeing  a  poor  soldier  cast  longing  eyes  at  the  liquid,  Sidney 
passed  it  to  him  with  the  words :  "  Thy  necessity  is  greater 
than  mine." 

Sidney's  Rank.  —  It  may  well  be  doubted  whether,  with- 
out the  glamour  of  his  romantic  career,  Sidney's  name  would 
stand  so  high  as  it  does  in  the  annals  of  literature.  As 
author,  however,  of  the  first  English  essay  in  literary  criti- 
cism, of  the  first  English  pastoral  romance,  and  of  a  sonnet- 
sequence  which  perhaps  inspired  the  similar  productions  of 
Spenser  and  Shakspere,  he  has  a  clear  title  to  a  place  all  his 
own. 

EDMUND   SPENSER,    1552-1599 

The  one  great  non-dramatic  poet  of  the  English  Renais- 
sance holds  no  such  position  to-day  as  he  held  with  his  con- 
temporaries. In  the  words  of  a  recent  writer  ^  and  manifest 
lover  of  this  poet :  "  Spenser  is  not  a  popular  poet.  He  has 
never  been  in  any  marked  degree  even  fashionable.  .  .  . 

'  Prof.  C.  G.  Osgood,  in  preface  to  A  Concordance  to  the  Poems  of 
Edmund  Spenser.     (The  Carnegie  Institution  of  Washington :  1915.) 


54  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

His  materials,  quality,  and  intention  forbid  that  a  multitude 
of  readers  should  ever  gather  about  him."  According  to 
Professor  Osgood,  however,  one's  attitude  toward  Spenser 
is  a  test  of  one's  fitness  to  appreciate  the  higher  things  of 
life :  "  To  all  men  of  finer  perceptions  and  sensibilities  he  is 
all  things."  If  there  be  truth  in  this  judgment,  it  is  worth 
one's  while  to  gain  some  knowledge  of  his  work. 

Education.  —  Edmund  Spenser,  like  his  great  predecessor 
Chaucer,  his  great  contemporary  Bacon,  and  many  illustrious 
writers  since,  was  a  Londoner  by  birth.  Though  his  family 
were  in  poor  circumstances,  he  managed  to  secure  a  good 
education,  at  the  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  and  at  Pembroke 
College,  Cambridge.  He  came  to  be  a  close  friend  of  men  of 
standing  and  influence,  through  whom,  after  leaving  the 
University  as  a  Master  of  Arts,  he  became  acquainted  with 
Sidney  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  Three  years  after  leaving 
the  University  he  published  The  Shepherd's  Calender,  a  pas- 
toral poem  in  twelve  parts,  "  everywhere  answering  to  the 
seasons  of  the  twelve  months."  Drawing  its  inspiration 
from  Theocritus  and  Virgil,  it  is  another  evidence  of  the  in- 
terest in  antiquity  which  was  one  of  the  distinctive  marks  of 
the  Renaissance  (see  page  44). 

In  Ireland.  —  "  The  Faerie  Queene."  —  Wishing  political 
preferment,  he  secured  a  not  very  desirable  appointment  as 
private  secretary  to  Lord  Grey,  deputy  to  Ireland.  There  he 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  time  till  his  death,  being  unable 
to  secure  a  more  congenial  position  in  England.  Among  other 
rewards  for  his  Irish  service  he  received  as  a  grant  Kilcolman 
Castle,  with  an  estate  of  about  3000  acres.  At  Kilcolman, 
Spenser  was  visited  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who  saw  the  first 
three  books  of  The  Faerie  Queene,  and  advised  the  poet  to 
bring  them  to  the  attention  of  Elizabeth.     This  Spenser  did ; 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     55 


but  though  the  poem  was  pleasing  to  the  Queen  and  met  with 
a  splendid  popular  reception,  its  prime  object  was  not  ac- 
complished. He  received  only  a  meagre  pension,  and  no 
promotion. 

Last  Years  and  Death.  —  In  1594,  three  years  after  the 
publication  just  mentioned,  Spenser  married  Elizabeth  Boyle, 
of  whose  life  and  associa- 
tions nothing  is  known.  To 
the  marriage  English  liter- 
ature is  indebted  for  an  ex- 
cellent sonnet-series  called 
Amoretti,  and  for  what  is 
universally  acclaimed  the 
greatest  wedding  hymn  in 
the  language,  Epithalami- 
on.  Two  years  afterward 
Spenser  went  again  to  Lon- 
don to  publish  the  rest  of 
The  Faerie  Queene.  Some 
time  after  his  return  to 
Ireland,  a  new  rebellion 
broke  out  in  that  part  of 
the  country,  and  Kilcolman  Castle  was  destroyed.  The  poet 
escaped  with  his  family  to  Cork,  then  to  London,  where,  in 
January,  1599,  after  a  month's  illness  he  died. 

The  "  Amoretti."  —  Although  Spenser  wrote  other  poems 
and  one  piece  of  prose  which  are  extant,  and  nine  comedies 
which  are  lost,  the  works  having  greatest  general  interest 
to-day  are  the  Amoretti  and  The  Faerie  Queene.  The  sonnets 
of  the  Amoretti  are  an  interesting  example  of  the  practice 
made  fashionable  by  Sidney.  While  they  certainly  have 
basis  in  fact,  being  inspired  by  his  courtship  of  Elizabeth 


Edmuxd  Spenser. 


56  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Boyle,  they  are  full  of  the  phraseology  and  figures  belonging 
to  that  type  of  literature  in  his  day.  Spenser,  however, 
invented  a  rhyme-scheme  for  himself  as  did  Shakspere,  in- 
stead of  adopting  Sidney's  scheme,  itself  adopted  from  the 
ItaHan. 

"  The  Faerie  Queene."  —  The  ambitious  plan  of  the 
Faerie  Queene  is  set  forth  in  a  letter  to  Raleigh  prefixed  to  the 
publication  of  the  first  three  books.  The  poet  was  to  "  fashion 
a  gentleman,"  choosing  as  his  model  King  Arthur,  in  whom 
he  found  exemplified  "  the  twelve  private  moral  virtues," 
and  devoting  a  section  (or  "  book  ")  of  the  poem  to  each 
virtue.  The  Faerie  Queene  herself  he  meant  "  for  glory  in 
general  intention,"  but  for  Elizabeth  "  in  particular."  The 
queen's  part  in  the  fiction  was  this :  she  was  to  hold  a  feast 
for  twelve  days,  on  each  of  which  an  adventure  happened ; 
each  adventure  was  undertaken  by  a  different  Knight,  and 
each  made  the  subject  of  a  book.  The  six  books  which  Spen- 
ser completed  relate  the  adventures  of  knights  representing 
the  virtues  of  Holiness, 'Temperance,  Chastity,  Friendship, 
Justice,  Courtesy. 

The  course  of  the  story  is  interrupted  by  innumerable  other 
stories,  not  always  clearly  connected  with  the  main  theme, 
and  sometimes  bearing  evidence  of  having  been  separately 
composed.  The  deliberately  archaic  vocabulary  is  for  many 
a  deterrent  to  sympathetic  reading.  While  it  is  probable  that 
The  Faerie  Queene  has  been  read  entire  by  few  but  specialists, 
carefully  made  selections  should  interest  a  large  circle  of 
readers;  for  the  tone  of  moral  earnestness,  the  charm  of 
highly  imaginative  word-paintings,  and  the  graceful  music  of 
the  verse  are  ever-present  sources  of  general  appeal. 

The  "  Spenserian  "  Stanza.  —  The  Spenserian  stanza  de- 
serves  examination   by   any  reader  of  English  poetry.     It 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     57 

contains  nine  lines,  of  which  the  first  eight  are  iambic  pen- 
tameter (i.e.,  made  up  of  five  feet,  ten  syllables,  with  the 
accent  on  the  even-numbered  syllables),  and  the  ninth  iambic 
hexameter  (six  feet,  twelve  syllables).  These  lines  rhyme  as 
follows :  first  and  third ;  second,  fourth,  fifth,  and  seventh ; 
sixth,  eighth,  and  ninth  (or,  as  rhyme-schemes  are  usually 
given  —  ababbcbcc).  It  has  been  found  an  excellent  meter 
for  various  kinds  of  poems  of  considerable  length,  among 
notable  examples  of  which  may  be  mentioned  Shelley's 
Adonais  (an  elegy),  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  (a  unified  nar- 
rative), Byron's  Childe  Harold  (a  leisurely  narrative  and 
descriptive  travel  record),  and  the  introduction  to  Tenny- 
son's Lotos-Eaters  (a  poetic  picture). 

FRANCIS   BACON,    1561-1626 

Between  the  writings  and  the  life  of  Francis  Bacon  there  is 
a  striking  contradiction.  "  Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  "  (mean- 
ing "  self-love  "),  he  writes,  "  is,  in  many  branches  thereof, 
a  depraved  thing ; "  yet  when  his  own  prospects  seemed  to 
be  at  stake,  he,  as  attorney  for  the  crown,  prosecuted  his 
best,  once  most  influential,  friend.  Concerning  judges  he 
writes :  "  Above  all  things,  integrity  is  their  portion  and 
proper  virtue ;  "  yet  at  the  age  of  sixty  he  pleaded  guilty  to 
the  charge  of  corruption  in  accepting  gifts  of  money  from 
suitors  in  his  court.  He  disclaimed  ever  having  been  influ- 
enced by  a  gift  in  making  a  decision ;  but  he  apparently 
lacked  the  confidence  in  his  disclaimer  necessary  to  a  reason- 
able defence. 

Life,  to  End  of  Elizabeth's  Reign.  —  He  was  born  in  Lon- 
don, January  22,  L561,  the  son  of  Elizabeth's  Lord  Keeper  of 
the  Great  Seal.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was  sent  to  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  which  he  left  three  years  later  without 


58  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

a  degree.  After  a  year's  study  of  law  at  Gray's  Inn,  London, 
he  spent  three  years  in  Paris  as  an  attache  of  the  EngUsh  em- 
bassy, from  which  employment  he  was  recalled  by  his  father's 
death.  He  began  the  practice  of  law,  and  became  a  member 
of  parliament ;  but  believing  from  the  first  that  influence  was 
necessary  to  advancement,  he  sought  the  favor  of  his  kins- 
man. Lord  Burghley. 

When  Essex  replaced  Burghley  in  the  Queen's  good  graces. 
Bacon  promptly  attached  himself  to  Essex's  following.     The 


CZJ^^^K^^*^-^^^  ^p£. 


/: 


Facsimile  of  Bacon's  Signature.     (British  Museum.) 

patron  was  imable  to  advance  the  young  lawyer's  political 
fortunes,  but  presented  him  with  a  handsome  estate.  In 
1597  appeared  in  print  the  first  edition  of  Bacon's  Essays,  ten 
in  all.  The  first  blot  on  the  page  of  the  author's  life  came 
four  years  later,  when,  as  special  attorney,  he  aided  in 
prosecuting  Essex  for  treason,  and  was  the  chief  instrument 
in  sending  him  to  the  block. 

Rapid   Rise   to  Fame.  —  The  time  was  at   hand  when 
Bacon's  powers  were  to  be  recognized  and  his  ambitions 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     59 

gratified.  Elizabeth  died  in  1603  without  aiding  in  either  of 
these;  but  under  her  successor,  James,  his  recognition  was 
prompt  and  his  promotion  rapid.  In  1607  he  became  SoHci- 
tor-General ;  in  1613,  Attorney-General;  in  1617,  Lord 
Keeper;  in  1619,  Lord  Chancellor.  In  1618  he  was  raised 
to  the  peerage  with  the  title  of  Baron  Verulam :  and  in  1621 
received  his  last  honor  —  the  raising  to  higher  rank  as  Vis- 
count St.  Albans. 

Sudden  Fall.  —  His  fall  was  sudden :  within  six  months 
he  was  disgraced  as  a  result  of  charges  of  corruption  in  his 
office  as  judge  in  the  Court  of  Chancery.  He  was  dismissed 
from  office  and  declared  incapable  of  holding  office  again, 
fined  £40,000,  sentenced  to  prison  during  the  King's  pleasure, 
and  banished  from  Court  forever.  He  was  released  after  a 
few  weeks'  imprisonment,  and  his  fine  was  remitted;  but 
the  remainder  of  the  punishment  was  enforced. 

Death.  —  Bacon  then  retired  to  his  estate  at  St.  Albans  in 
Hertfordshire,  and  devoted  the  remaining  five  years  of  his 
life  to  writing  and  experimentation.  The  end  came  April 
9,  1626.  It  has  often  been  said  that  he  died  a  martyr  to 
science ;  and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  think  that,  if  "  nothing 
in  his  life  became  him  like  the  leaving  it,"  at  least  the  leav- 
ing was  becoming  —  even  heroic. 

The  original  statement  regarding  his  death,  however,  does 
not  bear  out  this  idea.  He  went  out  to  gather  snow  with 
which  to  stuff  a  hen,  in  order  to  see  whether  cold  would  pre- 
serve flesh,  and  he  died  a  few  days  later  of  bronchitis.  The 
disease  was  brought  on,  however  (according  to  his  friend,  the 
philosopher  Thomas  Hobbes),  not  by  the  exposure  incident 
to  the  experiment,  but  by  the  dampness  of  the  bed  in  which 
he  was  put.  Indirectly,  of  course,  the  experiment  caused 
his  death,  but  hardly  in  heroic  fashion. 


60 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Works  of  Minor  Interest.  —  Besides  the  essays  Bacon 
wrote  The  Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,  an  interpretation  of  my- 
thology ;  The  History  of  Henry  VII;  The  New  Atlantis,  a 
picture  of  an  ideal  state ;  and  The  Advancement  of  Learning, 

and  Novum  Organum, 
scientific  works  impor- 
tant not  so  much  for 
their  contents  as  for 
the  author's  insistence 
on  the  superiority  of 
induction  to  deduction 
in  scientific  investiga- 
tion. Most  of  the  ad- 
vance in  science  since 
Bacon's  day  is  attrib- 
uted to  the  acceptance 
of  this  principle  first 
emphasized  by  him. 


I  THE 

lESSAYESl 

|C  OV  NS  E  L  S| 

J         CIVILLWMORALL:         g, 

"S  pHANCIS  L0.VERIILJM,  ^ 
*3  VISCOVNT  S'.AisAN.  ^ 

*^  WITH  W 

*2  A  Table  of  the  <?olours,  or  Apparances  of  fc* 

Ti  G  o  o  n  and  E  V 1  r  • ,  ar.<i  their  Dcgrccs.ai  pUcM  ^ 
<H         d  Pctfitifion,  ind  D'.irwJUOn,  and  their  fctttW        M> 

^  F»W.X»,ir.ii  thcElctichfj     '  K 


I 


S^Cf'lj  tnUrgtd^ 


London, 

Printed byloHN  Beale, 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  an  Early  Com- 
plete Edition  of  Bacon's  Essays. 

(Swarthmore  College  Library.) 


Greatness  of  the 
"  Essays."  —  However 
valuable  his  scientific 
labors,  they  would  give 
Bacon  a  small  place  in 
literature  in  compari- 
son with  the  place  the 
Essays  give  him.     The 


sense  of  the  word  essays  used  by  Bacon  he  states  in  his  dedi- 
cation —  "  dispersed  meditations ;  "  and  later  "  certain 
brief  notes  set  down  rather  significantly  than  curiously  "  — 
that  is,  more  for  meaning  than  for  style.  With  these  char- 
acterizations in  mind  a  reader  is  not  surprised  to  find  that 
the  essays  are  not  always  coherent  —  that  the  sentences,  as 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     61 

Caxlyle  said  of  Emerson's,  do  not  always  "  rightly  stick  to 
their  foregoers  and  their  followers."  The  most  memorable 
sentences  are  often  terse  ones  which  stand  out  by  themselves 
as  if  not  meant  for  parts  of  wholes. 

In  the  essay  Of  Adversity,  for  example,  we  read :  "  Pros- 
perity is  not  without  many  fears  and  distastes;  and  ad- 
versity is  not  without  comforts  and  hopes ;  "  this  between  a 
sentence  dealing  with  the  predominance  of  sadness  over  joy 
in  the  Old  Testament,  and  one  which  by  an  unusual  figure  of 
speech  suggests  that  we  "  judge  of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart 
by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye."  The  essay  Of  Studies  is  really 
a  collection  of  texts,  upon  any  one  of  which  an  extended  dis- 
course might  well  be  written.  In  a  period  when  long,  in- 
volved sentences  were  the  fashion,  the  directness  and  pithi- 
ness of  Bacon's  make  his  style  especially  noteworthy. 

The  "  Essays  "  and  the  Renaissance  Spirit.  —  The  range 
of  subjects  treated  in  the  Essays  reflects  the  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance  —  its  unwillingness  to  endure  any  limitation  of 
its  inquiry,  its  ambition  to  extend  knowledge,  to  take  "  all 
knowledge  for  [its]  province."  Matters  of  personal  concern, 
such  as  Friendship,  Honour  and  Reputation,  Adversity ;  mat- 
ters relating  to  government,  such  as  Seditions  and  Troubles, 
Faction,  The  True  Greatness  of  Kingdoms  and  Estates, 
Judicature;  matters  of  concern  to  all  mankind,  such  as 
Truth,  Beauty,  Deformity,  Youth  and  Age :  —  these  topics 
give  a  hint  of  the  fields  of  thought  entered  in  the  fifty- 
eight  essays  of  the  final  edition  (published  in  1625).  The 
fact  that  they  cover  subjects  so  clearly  universal  in  their 
appeal,  that,  in  the  author's  words,  they  "  come  home 
to  men's  business  and  bosoms,"  explains  their  interest  for 
readers  of  to-day  as  well  as  for  those  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 


62  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  Drama 

The  glory  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  and  therefore  of  all 
English  literature,  is  the  drama.  Before  treating  the  lead- 
ing writers  of  drama  in  this  period  we  shall  trace  the  devel- 
opment of  this  form  of  literatm-e  somewhat  in  detail. 

Origin  of  Drama — in  the  Church.  — The  drama  in  Eng- 
land began  soon  after  the  Norman  Conquest,  with  a  com- 
position called  the  Play  of  St.  Katharine.  The  connection 
between  religion  and  the  drama  suggested  by  this  title  is 
very  vital.  Whoever  has  attended  high  mass  in  a  Roman 
Catholic  church  to-day  must  on  reflection  realize  the  dra- 
matic elements  in  the  service.  The  procession  of  priests 
and  acolytes,  the  bowing  before  the  altar,  the  elevation  of 
the  host,  the  chanted  responses,  the  changing  of  the 
priest's  costume,  —  all  these  involve  action  making  a  defi- 
nite appeal  to  the  eye,  which  is  the  distinguishing  element 
in  all  drama.  At  Christmas  and  Easter  there  are  in  many 
churches  additions  to  the  setting  and  the  service,  such  as 
the  placing  of  a  babe  in  an  improvised  manger  in  the 
chancel,  and  the  unveiling  of  crucifixes  hidden  from  sight 
for  three  days. 

"  Mkacle  "  Plays.  —  In  the  olden  time  such  additions 
were  many,  and  resulted  (as  the  clergy  hoped  they  would) 
in  increased  attendance  on  the  church  services.  Similar  ex- 
tended services  were  held  on  saints'  days.  Before  long 
crowds  became  too  large  for  the  church  buildings,  and  ser- 
vices were  then  held  outside  —  the  church  porch  serving  as 
stage.  Once  outside  the  building  the  productions,  called 
now  Miracle  or  Mystery  Plays,  were  rapidly  secularized,  — 
that  is,  elements  were  added  by  no  means  chiefly  religious, 
and  others  than  priests  and  altar-boys  performed. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     63 


Drama  in  Secular  Hands.  —  The  next  step  took  the  Mir- 
acle Plays  out  of  the  hands  of  the  clergy.  So  popular  had 
they  become  that  even  the  largest  churchyard  could  not  ac- 
commodate the  crowds ;  and  the  productions  were  now  taken 


A  Pageant  Car  Performance  at  Coventry. 
From  an  old  print. 

over  by  the  guilds,  the  trades  unions  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
Each  of  these  organizations  had  a  patron  saint,  and  was 
accustomed  to  celebrate  that  saint's  day  in  some  public 
fashion.     They  made  use  of  a  moving  stage,  or  pageant  car. 


64  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

upon  which  the  play  was  produced  in  different  parts  of  a 
city.  Under  their  control  were  developed  "cycles"  of  plays 
of  which  four  containing  from  twenty-fiv^e  to  fifty  plays  each 
are  extant  —  those  of  Chester,  Coventry,  York,  and  Towne- 
ley.  A  "cycle"  of  Miracle  Plays  was  a  series  depicting 
selected  scenes  from  Creation  to  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

Non-Scriptural  Incidents  in  Plays.  —  When  these  dramatic 
compositions  had  reached  their  full  development  (fourteenth 
or  fifteenth  century),  they  contained  many  incidents  not 
found  in  the  scriptural  narrative  or  in  the  accepted  lives  of 
the  saints.  In  a  play  called  Noah's  Flood,  for  example,  a 
comic  incident  is  introduced  when  Noah's  wife,  refusing  to 
believe  in  the  coming  deluge,  objects  to  entering  the  ark 
without  her  "gossips,"  or  boon  companions.  When  efforts 
at  persuasion  fail,  Noah  vigorously  applies  the  lash  and 
drives  his  partner  unwillingly  aboard. 

In  a  Play  of  the  Shepherds,  befoire  the  announcement  of 
Christ's  birth,  one  shepherd  misses  a  sheep;  the  rest 
immediately  suspect  one  Mak  (who  apparently  has  been  in 
such  scrapes  before),  and  follow  him  to  his  home.  After 
searching  high  and  low  and  finding  no  sheep,  the  visitors 
feel  rather  guilty ;  and  as  they  are  about  to  depart  they 
decide  to  make  a  peace-offering  to  Mak's  baby  in  the  cradle. 
Examination  shows,  however,  that  the  supposed  baby  is 
nothing  else  than  the  missing  sheep.  The  shepherds  toss 
Mak  in  a  blanket  till  they  are  exhausted  ;  they  then  lie  down 
in  the  field  and  sleep  till  they  are  aroused  by  the  "  Gloria  in 
excelsis  "  of  the  Christmas  angels. 

The  comic  element  was  further  brought  out  in  the  antics 
of  Herod,  who  was  allowed  to  get  down  from  the  pageant 
car  and  circulate  among  the  crowd  playing  practical 
jokes. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     65 

Rise  of  the  "  Morality  "  Play.  —  When  the  Miracle  Plays 
passed  from  the  control  of  the  church  to  that  of  the  guilds, 
the  secularizing  process  already  mentioned  went  further. 
The  plays,  instead  of  containing  some  incidents  not  taken 
from  Scripture,  became  chiefly  non-scriptural  in  character. 
From  this  condition  it  was  but  a  short  step  to  the  Morality 
Play,  in  which  the  characters  are  personified  abstractions, 
representing  virtues  and  vices,  and  qualities  of  the  human 
mind.  In  the  Morality  of  Everyman,  for  example,  some  of  the 
characters  are  Death,  Fellowship,  Knowledge,  Good-Deeds, 
Discretion.  In  Hycke-scorner  (i.e.,  rascal,  scoffer)  we  find 
Imagination,  Pity,  and  Perseverance.  Popular  characters 
usually  found  are  Vice  and  the  Devil,  who  took  the  place  of 
Herod  as  chief  comic  figures.  Their  part  in  the  plays  is 
alluded   to  in  Shakspere's  Twelfth   Night,  where  the  clown 

sings : 

"I'll  be  with  you  again, 
In  a  trice, 

Like  to  the  old  Vice, 
Your  need  to  sustain ; 
Who  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 
Cries,  aha!  to  the  de\'il." 

The  "  Interlude."  —  It  seems  that  Miracle  Plays  and 
Moralities  ran  side  by  side  until  nearly  the  end  of  the  six- 
teenth century.  A  third  form  of  dramatic  entertainment  that 
some  think  grew  out  of  the  Moralities  is  called  the  Interlude, 
from  having  originally  been  performed  between  the  courses 
at  a  feast  or  between  the  acts  of  a  serious  and  longer  play. 
Whatever  its  origin,  its  contribution  to  the  development  of 
drama  is  important. 

Roughly  speaking,  we  may  say  that,  as  the  Miracle  Play 
furnished  the  plot-ancestry  of  the  drama,  the  Morality  the 
character-ancestry,  so  the  Interlude  furnished  the  dialogue- 


66  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ancestry.  In  general,  the  Interlude  had  little  plot,  little 
characterization;  the  writer's  aim  was  to  write  as  clever 
dialogue  as  he  could  —  to  write  talk  purely  for  talk's  sake. 
An  outline  of  one  of  the  best-known  interludes,  The  Four 
P's,  by  John  Heywood,  the  most  famous  name  that  has  come 
down  to  us  connected  with  this  form,  will  demonstrate  this 
fact. 

A  Palmer,  a  Potycary  (=  apothecary),  and  a  Pardoner,' 
meeting  by  chance,  decide  to  contest  for  the  distinction  of  being 
the  biggest  liar ;  and  a  Pedlar  who  chances  to  come  along  is 
asked  to  act  as  judge.  After  Palmer  and  Pardoner  have  told 
elaborate  stories  to  show  their  power  of  mendacity,  the  Potycary 
wins  the  prize  with  a  narrative  of  about  twenty  lines,  concluding : 

"Yet  in  all  places  where  I  have  been, 
Of  all  the  women  that  I  have  seen, 
I  never  saw  nor  knew,  in  my  conscience, 
Any  one  woman  out  of  patience." 

Earliest  Real  Dramas.  —  The  first  productions  that  are 
properly  called  dramas  date  from  about  1550  to  1570.  The 
first  in  time  was  King  John,  a  sort  of  chronicle  history. 
The  next,  Ralph  Roister  Boister,  usually  named  as  the  first 
English  comedy,  is  built  on  the  model  of  the  Latin  comedies 
of  Plautus.  Although  this  play  is  quite  un-English  and  ar- 
tificial, with  type  characters  and  with  situations  almost 
transferred  from  the  Latin,  it  was  of  much  value  as  a  speci- 
men of  well-constructed  plot. 

The  first  genuine  tragedy,  written  some  ten  years  after 
the  history  and  comedy  just  mentioned,  was  Gorboduc,  or 

1  A  Palmer  was  a  man  who  had  been  on  some  religious  pilgrimage, 
usually  to  the  Holy  Land.  A  Pardoner  had  a  special  license  from  the 
Pope  to  enter  any  parish  without  permission,  to  preach,  and  to  dispose 
of  pardons,  usually  for  money.  Most  pardoners  were  scoundrels,  not  a 
few  palmers  were,  and  apothecaries  were  under  suspicion  much  oftener 
in  the  sixteenth  century  than  they  are  now. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     67 

Ferrex  and  Porrex,  based  on  British  legendary  history  and 
modeled  on  the  plays  of  the  greatest  Latin  tragic  writer, 
Seneca.  Following  this  model  Shakspere's  great  tragedies 
would  have  been  impossible;  for  as  in  the  Senecan 
tragedies  always,  the  action  takes  place  oflF  the  scene  and  is 
reported  by  messengers.     Gorboduc,  however,  like  the  Latin 


INTERIOR    OF    AN    ELIZABETHAN    ThEATRB. 

As  reconstructed  by  Godfrey. 


comedy,  helped  in  fixing  for  later  writers  the  idea  of  con- 
struction. 

The  last  of  these  four  early  dramas,  Gammer  Gurton's 
Needle  (Gammer  means  "  Grandmother  ")  is  a  comedy  as 
well  constructed  as  Ralph  Roister  Doister,  and  far  superior 
to  that  in  substance.  The  plot  is  absm"d  —  the  hunt  for  a 
lost  needle,  discovered  at  last  by  one  of  the  characters  in 


68  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

the  seat  of  his  trousers ;  but  the  characters  and  setting  are 
EngHsh,  and  the  dialogue  is  a  faithful  reproduction  of  peasant 
life  of  the  day. 

The  First  Theatres.  —  The  interludes,  and  the  early  plays 
just  described,  were  not  performed  on  the  pageant  wagons 
of  the  later  miracle  plays.  Until  1576  they  were  given  in 
inn-yards,  on  public  lands  in  towns,  or  in  any  kind  of  build- 
ing that  could  be  had.  In  the  year  named  the  first  building 
designed  solely  for  the  acting  of  plays  was  erected  in  London, 
and  was  called  merely  "  The  Theatre."  When  Shakspere 
left  London  some  thirty  years  later,  there  were  probably  ten 
or  twelve  theatres,  in  two  of  which  —  the  Globe  and  the 
Blackfriars  —  the  dramatist  was  a  shareholder. 

Structure  of  the  Elizabethan  Theatre.  —  Continued  re- 
search has  brought  out  much  information  regarding  the 
structure  of  these  buildings,  and  the  manner  of  presentation 
of  plays  in  them  about  1590-1610.  There  was  no  roof  ex- 
cept over  the  stage  and  the  balconies.  In  the  pit,  where  now 
are  the  most  desirable  seats  in  a  theatre,  there  were  no  seats, 
and  the  spectator  had  to  stand  unless  he  carried  a  box  or 
stool  along  with  him.  Here  would  be  found  the  laborers 
and  servants,  who  not  infrequently  engaged  in  fist  fights  over 
choice  positions  or  purloined  seats. 

Balconies  and  Stage.  —  The  better  classes  of  society  had 
seats  in  the  balconies  extending  around  three  sides  of  the 
building,  though  some  of  the  young  "  sports  "  were  allowed, 
on  paying  an  extra  fee,  to  sit  on  the  stage.  Instead  of  being 
shut  off  from  the  auditorium  by  a  curtain  such  as  is  used 
to-day,  the  stage  extended  out  into  the  room.  At  the  rear 
was  a  raised  portion  used  as  Juliet's  balcony,  as  the  walls  of 
a  city,  or  as  a  hill  from  which  a  distant  view  might  be  had. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     69 

Costumes  and  Scenery.  —  The  actors'  costumes,  though 
often  elaborate,  made  no  pretence  of  appropriateness.  Very 
little  scenery  was  used ;  a  bed,  a  throne,  a  desk,  or  a  few 
trees  in  wooden  tubs  indicated  the  place  of  the  action.  The 
absence  of  realistic  appeals  to  the  eye  resulted  in  a  greater 
demand  on  the  imagination.  To  this  situation,  perhaps, 
are  due  many  of  the  superb  descriptions  in  Elizabethan 
drama,  such,  for  example,  as  that  of  Dover  Cliff  in  King 
Lear,  or  Duncan's  description  of  Macbeth's  castle. 

Since  there  was  no  artificial  lighting  in  the  house,  per- 
formances were  given  in  the  afternoon.  A  flag  flying  from 
the  roof  was  the  notice  that  a  performance  was  to  take  place ; 
but  one  had  to  come  near  enough  to  read  the  sign  on  the 
building  to  know  what  play  was  to  be  performed. 

Women  in  the  Theatre. — Probably  the  fact  most  surprising 
to  an  investigator  is  that  there  were  few  women  in  an  Eliza- 
bethan theatre.  Respectable  women  in  the  audience  wore 
masks ;  and  more  remarkable  still,  there  were  no  women  on 
the  stage.  Women's  parts  were  taken  by  boys  until  after 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century;  and  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  think  of  a  boy  playing  Lady  Macbeth  or  Portia 
or  Ophelia,  these  parts  were  apparently  played  with  real 
success. 

Chief  Dramatists  before  Shakspere.  —  Of  the  chief  drama- 
tists belonging  to  the  two  decades  preceding  the  beginning 
of  Shakspere's  work  (about  1570-1590)  very  brief  mention 
is  sufficient.  George  Peele  wrote  Edward  I,  worthy  of  note 
in  the  development  of  the  chronicle-history  play;  and 
David  and  Bethsabe,  based  on  the  Biblical  story,  and  con- 
taining passages  of  admirable  poetry.  Robert  Greene's 
Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,  is  a  pure  English  comedy  carry- 
ing forward  the  tradition  of  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle;   and 


70  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

his  James  IV  contains  a  theme  worked  out  deUghtfully 
several  times  by  Shakspere  —  a  heroine  leaving  home  in 
the  disguise  of  a  man  to  avoid  some  unwelcome  situation. 
Thomas  Kyd,  in  his  Spanish  Tragedy,  produced  a  play 
which  has  striking  points  of  resemblance  to  Hamlet,  and 
which  one  can  but  think  the  greater  dramatist  studied  when 
writing  his  play.  John  Lyly's  comedies  have  been  men- 
tioned as  important  forerunners  of  the  best  type  of  Shak- 
sperean  comedy, 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE,    1564-1593 

Life.  —  The  greatest  name  in  drama  before  Shakspere  is 
Christopher  Marlowe,  son  of  a  shoemaker,  born  a  few  months 
before  Shakspere  in  Canterbury,  County  of  Kent.  By  the 
aid  of  influential  friends  h^  attended  Corpus  Christi  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  from  which  he  was  graduated  in  1583. 
Four  years  later,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-three,  his  first 
play  was  produced  in  London.  In  the  six  years  between 
this  and  his  death,  Marlowe  wrote  six  more  plays,  a  few 
notable  lyrics,  and  the  intense  love-narrative  in  verse.  Hero 
and  Leander.  Like  many  of  his  profession  in  his  day,  he 
led  a  wild  life;  and  his  death  in  1593  resulted  from  a  tavern 
brawl. 

Character  of  Marlowe's  Plays.  —  Four  of  Marlowe's 
plays  are,  by  general  consent,  assigned  an  important  place 
in  English  dramatic  history  —  Tamburlaine,  Doctor  Faustus, 
The  Jew  of  Malta,  and  Edward  II.  A  feature  common  to 
them  all  is  the  presentation  of  a  particular  ambition  in 
exaggerated  form.  Tamburlaine  aspires  to  be  the  world's 
master ;  and  in  each  of  nine  acts  (the  play  is  in  two  parts)  he 
conquers  an  empire.  The  ambition  of  Faustus  is  for  knowl- 
edge, in  the  pursuit  of  which  he  sells  his  soul  to  the  devil. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     71 

Barabbas  the  Jew,  prototype  of  Shylock,  desires  wealth 
and  commits  a  series  of  crimes  to  attain  his  desire.  In  Ed- 
ward II  the  ambition  which  causes  the  tragedy  is  for  affec- 
tion, presumably  received  by  the  King  from  an  unscrupulous 
follower  and  rewarded  by  power  WTongly  used. 

The  de\'ice  of  making  the  action  turn  on  one  large  central 
character  helped  to  a  unity  of  interest  which  preceding  dramas 
had  lacked.     The  high-sounding  rhetorical  style  of   Mar- 


CoKPrs  Chuisti  College. 


lowe's  plays  —  what  Ben  Jonson  called  his  "  mighty  line  "  — 
gave  an  effect  of  dignity  and  substance  most  desirable  for 
the  drama  at  this  time. 

Contributions  to  English  Drama.  —  For  these  two  fea- 
tures —  unity  of  interest  and  forceful  style  —  Marlowe, 
despite  the  structural  defects  and  over-emphasis  of  his  plays, 
holds  a  high  place  in  the  development  of  the  drama.  It  is 
manifest  that  he  exerted  a  good  influence  on  Shakspere ; 
and  a  graceful  though  slight  acknowledgment  of  indebted- 


72  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ness  is  found  in  a  passage  in  As  You  Like  It  (3.  5.  82),  where 
Phebe  says: 

"Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might, 
'Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight? ' " 

The  "  saw  "  (i.e.,  saying)  which  Phebe  found  "  of  might  " 
{i.e.,  true)  is  taken  from  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander. 


Shakspere's  Birthplace. 

WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE,    1564-1616 

Concerning  the  life  and  works  of  the  greatest  figure  of 
the  greatest  literary  period  in  English  literature  thousands 
of  books  and  essays  have  been  written.  Theories  almost 
without  number  have  been  advanced  which  have  very  slight 
claims  to  consideration.  In  the  sketch  here  given  effort  is 
made  to  state  as  facts  only  what  are  known  to  be  such,  and 
to. refrain  from  even  a  mention  of  many  possibilities  often 
mentioned,  but  resting  on  very  slight  evidence. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     73 


Early  Life  in  Stratford.  —  Shakspere  '  was  baptized  in  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Stratford  on  April  26,  1564 ; 
and  what  we  know  of  the  practice  of  baptism  at  that  period 
leads  us  to  suppose  that  he  was  less  than  a  week  old.  Noth- 
ing is  known  of  his  boyhood,  not  even  that  he  went  to  school. 
Though  there  is  no  record  of  his  marriage,  there  is  document- 
ary evidence  making  it  certain  that  in  November,  1582,  he 
was  married  to  Anne  Hathaway,  of  the  village  of  Shottery 


Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage  at  Shottery. 
A  most  picturesque  little  house  a  short  distance  from  Stratford. 

near   Stratford.      A    daughter  was   baptized   in    1583,  and 
twins,  son  and  daughter,  in  1585. 

In  London ;  and  First  Appearances  in  Print.  —  When 
Shakspere  went  to  London  and  why,  and  how  he  first  occu- 

'  How  the  dramatist  preferred  to  spell  his  name  is  not  known.  His 
father's  name  appears  in  the  Stratford  records  in  sixteen  different  forms, 
and  the  six  authentic  signatures  of  his  own  seem  to  show  three  forms. 
The  spelling  here  adopted  is  used  by  Professors  Dowden,  Wendell,  and 
Kittredge,  and  by  the  New  Shakspere  Society  of  London. 


74 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


pied  himself  after  his  arrival  there,  are  not  known.  By 
1592  he  had  become  successful  enough  at  play-writing 
to  arouse  the  jealousy  of  one  Robert  Greene.  In  a 
pamphlet  called  A  Groatsworth  of  Wit  Greene  alludes  to 
Shakspere  as  "  an  upstart  crow,"  who  has  beautified 
himself  with  the  feathers  of  Greene  and  other  successful 
dramatists.  The  following  year  appeared  the  poet's  first 
published    work,    the   narrative  poem    Venus  and   Adonis, 


Interiok  of  Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage. 


with  a  dedication  signed  with  the  poet's  name ;  and  in  1594 
came  Lucrece. 

The  next  bit  of  fact  comes  from  the  Stratford  records, 
from  which  we  learn  that  the  poet's  only  son  died  in 
August,  1596.  The  year  following  Shakspere  bought  the 
largest  house  in  Stratford;  and  from  this  time  to  his 
death  he  was  conspicuous  in  the  life  of  the  town,  not  so 
much  because  of  his  artistic  as  because  of  his  financial 
success. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     75 

Early  Recognition.  —  Perhaps  the  best  evidence  that  his 
contemporaries  recognized  his  greatness  is  found  in  a  pubH- 
cation  of  the  year  1598,  called  Palladis  Tamia,  or  "  Wit's 
Treasury,"  by  Frances  Meres  (Merz).  From  a  long  pas- 
sage in  this  book  we  learn  that  Shakspere  was  "accounted  " 
the  best  among  the  English  in  both  comedy  and  tragedy; 
and  that  the  poems  of  the  "  mellifluous  and  honey-tongued  " 
were  thought  of  as  keeping  alive  "  the  sweet  witty  soul  of 
Ovid."  Six  comedies  and  six  tragedies  are  named  as  Shak- 
spere's. 

Success.  —  In  addition  to  being  preeminent  as  playwright 
Shakspere  was  regarded  before  1600  as,  if  not  the  best  actor 
in  his  company,  yet  the  best-known  ;  for  his  name  heads  the 
list  of  the  "  Lord  Chamberlain's  Servants,"  the  company  to 
which  he  had  for  some  time  belonged.  By  1600  he  was  also 
one  of  the  principal  owners  of  the  Globe  and  Blackfriars 
theatres ;  and  there  are  other  indisputable  evidences  of  his 
material  prosperity. 

Last  Years  —  in  Stratford.  —  The  poet's  father  died  in 
1601 ;  his  mother  in  1608.  That  the  poet  himself  spent  his 
last  years  in  Stratford  is  known  from  various  references  to 
him  in  the  town  records ;  but  when  or  wh^'  he  retired  per- 
manently from  his  London  occupations  of  actor,  playwright, 
and  manager,  is  not  known.  In  these  references  the  ap- 
pelation  of  "  Gentleman  "  is  usually  added  to  his  name,  a 
result  of  the  granting  of  a  coat  of  arms  to  his  father  in  1599. 
Shakspere  was  buried  April  25,  1616,  and  the  inscription  on 
the  memorial  states  that  he  died  April  23.  There  is  no 
record  of  his  death,  and  we  do  not  certainly  know  when 
the  memorial  was  erected  or  who  was  authority  for  the  date 
on  it. 


76 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Text  of  the  Plays.  —  Of  the  thirty-seven  plays  included 
in  Shakspere's  complete  works,  only  sixteen  were  published 
during  his  lifetime.  There  is  no  evidence  that  he  sanctioned 
the  publication  of  any  one  of  them.     If  he  did  not  do  so,  it 

was  because  his 
plays  were  written 
to  be  acted  by  his 
own  company,  and 
could  be  performed 
exclusively  by  it 
only  so  long  as  the 
text  could  be  kept 
from  rival  compa- 
nies. 

For  the  remain- 
ing plays  we  are 
dependent  on  what 
is  called  the  "  First 
Folio,"  a  collec- 
tion of  the  plays 
published  in  1623, 
seven  years  after 
Shakspere's  death. 
There  is  no  manu- 
script of  any  play 
extant.  This  combination  of  circumstances  indicates  why 
many  passages  in  the  plays  are  either  not  entirely  clear  or 
are  even  quite  unintelligible :  the  most  accurate  text  we 
have  is  in  books  rather  carelessly  printed,  which  the  author 
had  no  opportunity  to  correct  or  revise. 

Uncertainties  regarding  Elizabethan  Writers.  —  In  six  of 
the  thirty-seven  plays  bearing  Shakspere's  name  it  is  very 


The  Droeshout  Portrait  of  Shakspere. 
From  the  First  Folio. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     77 

generally  believed  that  a  second  writer  had  a  hand ;  in  four, 
that  Shakspere  had  only  a  small  share.  Nearly  every  play 
contains  a  passage  or  passages  which  some  critics  believe 
should  be  assigned  to  some  other  author.  Any  one  disturbed 
by  these  uncertainties  and  led  to  doubt  Shakspere's  accom- 
plishment will  find  with  even  a  superficial  glance  at  the  his- 


HoLY  Trinity  Church,  STR.\TioiiD-ox-AvoN. 
Shakspere  is  buried  in  the  chancel. 

tory  of  Elizabethan  drama  that  such  imcertainties  exist  in  con- 
nection with  many  writers.  A  very  little  time  spent  in  inves- 
tigation of  the  lives  and  work  of  Thomas  Middleton,  Thomas 
Heywood,  John  Marston,  and  John  Webster  (to  cite  only  a  few) 
will  show  that  we  have  more  information  about  Shakspere 
than  about  these,  all  of  them  noted  playwrights  of  the  day. 

After  many  years  of  thorough  exploration  of  every  byway 
likely  to  lead  to  a  better  understanding  of  Shakspere's  work, 


78 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


we  are  now  able  to  say,  with  a  fair  approach  to  certainty, 
in  what  order  the  plays  were  written.  Differences  of  opinion 
exist,  it  is  true,  regarding  the  place  of  individual  works ; 

but  four  fairly  well- 
defined  periods  are  uni- 
versally recognized. 

Early  Plays.  —  In  the 
first  period,  extending 
to  about  1595  and  called 
by  Dowden  ^  "  In  the 
Workshop,"  were  pro- 
duced probably  four 
comedies,  three  histo- 
ries, and  one  or  two 
tragedies,  which  are 
plainly  experimental, 
imitative.  For  exam- 
ple. Love's  Labour's  Lost 
and  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  show  clearly  the 
influence  of  Lyly,  the 
most  successful  writer 
of  romantic  comedy 
(see  page  50).  Richard 
III  and  Richard  II  are 
modeled  upon  plays  of 
Marlowe.  Romeo  and 
Juliet  is  certainly  in- 
debted for  its  dramatic 
manner   to  an  earlier  play  on  the  subject   (not  extant) ; 

'  These  figurative  titles  are  given  in  Dowden's  Shakspere  Primer, 
now  somewhat  out  of  date,  but  still  an  admirable  book  for   the   be- 


Chancel  of  Holy  Trinity  Church, 
Stratford. 

The  tablet  and  bust  on  the  wall  are  a  me- 
morial to  Shakspere  and  the  large  tablet 
in  the  floor  shows  where  he  is  buried. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     79 

just  as  for  its  story  it  is  indebted  to  an  extant  novel  and 
poem. 

The  Great  Comedies  and  Histories.  —  The  second  period, 
"  In  the  World,"  extends  roughly  from  1596  to  1601,  and 
includes  the  great  comedies  —  Merchant  of  Venice,  Twelfth 
Night,  As  You  Like  It;  and  the  great  histories  —  Henry 
IV,  in  two  parts,  and  Henry  V.  During  these  years  Shak- 
spere  worked  in  the  fields  in  which  he  had  made  most  of  his 
experiments,  leaving  tragedy  for  the  next  division  of  his 
work.  The  result  was  a  series  of  most  entertaining  poetic 
comedies,  with  the  first  three  of  Shakspere's  wonderful  gal- 
lery of  charming  women  —  Portia,  Viola,  Rosalind. 

The  Tragedies.  —  The  period  from  1601  to  about  1608, 
Dowden's  "  Out  of  the  Depths,"  is  the  period  of  the  tragedies, 
of  which  the  greatest  are  known  to  almost  every  schoolboy 

—  Julius  CoBsar,  Hamlet,  Othello,  King  Lear,  Macbeth. 
Only  in  these  years  is  Shakspere  consistently  serious ;  and 
an  effort  is  usually  made  to  explain  the  tone  of  this  period 
by  supposed  events  of  the  poet's  life.  Whatever  the  cause, 
the  plays  of  this  period  picture  the  world's  sorrows,  and  the 
working  of  the  human  soul  under  the  stress  of  them. 

The  Romances.  —  In  the  closing  period,  which  Dowden 
calls  "  On  the  Heights,"  were  written  three  plays  to  which 
the  designation  "  dramatic  romances  "  is  generally  applied 

—  Cymbeline,  Winter's  Tale,  The  Tempest.  These  plays 
show  the  author  again  experimenting  not,  as  in  his  first  period, 
to  discover  whether  he  could  write  as  well  as  others,  but  to 
create  new  problems  which  only  a  master's  hand  could  solve. 

ginner.  A  recent  (1913)  small  volume  embodying  the  conclusions  of  Shak- 
sperean  scholarship  to  date,  Neilson  and  Thorndike's  The  Facts  about 
Shakespeare,  is  perhaps  the  best  single  book  for  students  of  all  ranks. 


80 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Interesting  from  every  viewpoint,  from  none  are  they  more 
so  than  in  their  additions  to  Shakspere's  collection  of  hero- 
ines —  Imogen,  Perdita,  Miranda. 

Shakspere's  Merits  of  Minor  Interest.  —  Scattered  through 
the  plays,  from  "  When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue  "  of 
Love's  Labour's  Lost  to  "  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I  " 
of  The  Tempest,  are  found  a  number  of  songs  which  place 
Shakspere  as  high  among  lyric  poets  as  among  dramatic. 
His  blank  verse  and  his  prose,  aside  from  their  perfect  adap- 
tation to  use  in  drama,  are  not  surpassed  in  the  English 
language.     Although  there  are  many  improbabilities  in  the 


Good  frend  for  Iesvs  ^ake  for  be:  are, 

TO  Dice  THE  DVST  ENCLOASED  H:ARL^ 

Blest  be  f  man  ^  ivmts  t^ls  stones 

'\')  C\'RSTBEHE^  MOVr.S  MY  BONE^^- 


iN.si.iUPTJoN  ON  Shakspere's  Tomb. 

plays,  and  some  apparent  inconsistencies,  Shakspere  shows 
a  mastery  in  construction  of  his  plots  unequaled  by  con- 
temporaries or  successors. 

His  Great  Achievements :  (i)  Range  of  his  Characters.  — 
Not  in  any  of  these  aspects,  however,  is  to  be  found  the  reason 
for  Shakspere's  preeminence  in  our  literature:  it  is  in  his 
portrayal  of  human  nature.  Over  two  hundred  definite 
personalities  JBgure  in  the  plays  ;  and  it  is  hardly  too  much  to 
say  that  he  has  left  untouched  no  type  of  character  or  sit- 
uation. From  the  foolish  servant  Launcelot  Gobbo  to  the 
superlatively  subtle  villain  lago;  from  the  bold,  impulsive 
Hotspur  —  "  He  that  kills  me  some  six  or  seven  dozen  of 
Scots  at  a  breakfast,  washes  his  hands,  and  says  to  his  wife : 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     81 

*  Fie  upon  this  quiet  life  !  I  want  work  '  "  —  to  the  vacil- 
lating, meditative,  self-analyzing  Hamlet ;  from  the  modest, 
true,  gentle  Cordelia  to  the  assertive,  unscrupulous  Lady 
Macbeth :  the  range  of  human  emotions  shown  is  as  broad 
as  life  itself. 

(2)  Universality  of  his  Characters.  —  The  characters  are, 
moreover,  as  in  life,  seldom  perfectly  simple  and  readily 
understood ;  there  is  a  mixture  of  motives  and  not  infre- 
quently a  lack  of  sufficient  motive,  just  as  there  is  in  the 
persons  and  actions  we  see  every  day.  Was  Lady  Macbeth 
spurred  on  solely  by  love  of  her  husband?  or  did  she  too 
have  an  ambition  for  distinction?  Did  Queen  Gertrude 
know  of  the  plot  against  the  elder  Hamlet's  life?  or  was 
she  merely  an  intellectually  and  morally  weak  woman  who 
became  easy  prey  to  the  murderer?  Is  Antony  merely  a 
self-seeking  politician  ?  (note  his  "  Mischief,  thou  art  afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt !  ")  or  does  his  espousal  of 
Caesar's  cause  against  Brutus  arise  from  devotion  to  the 
dead  and  real  belief  in  his  cause?  Had  lago's  diabolical 
plot  against  Othello  no  other  motive  than  desire  to  avenge 
a  small  personal  injury? 

Parallels  to  such  questions  can  and  always  will  be  found  by 
every  man  in  contemplating  the  conduct  of  people  coming 
under  his  observation.  To  the  universal  truth  to  nature  of 
Shakspere's  portraits  is  due  his  continued  wide  appeal.  As 
his  friend  Ben  Jonson  said : 

"He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 

Chief  Dramatists  after  Shakspere.  —  As  the  drama  was 
the  form  of  literature  most  favored  by  the  Elizabethan  Age, 
most  writers  wrote  plays.  Of  the  host  of  playwrights  who 
came  into  prominence  about  1600-1625,  few  require  ex- 
tended   treatment.      John    Ford    is    remembered    for    his 


82  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

strength  in  pathetic  scenes,  and  one  of  his  tragedies,  The 
Broken  Heart,  is  still  readable.  Thomas  Dekker  wrote  one 
realistic  comedy.  The  Shoemakers'  Holiday,  which  is  still  effec- 
tive on  the  stage.  George  Chapman,  memorable  as  translator 
of  Homer,  wrote  several  rather  bombastic  dramas  based  on 
contemporary  French  history,  of  which  Bussy  d'Ambois  is  the 
best.  John  Webster  excelled  in  portraying  the  terrible,  and 
his  Duchess  of  Malfi,  though  melodramatic,  is  a  powerful  play. 
More  important  than  any  of  these  are  Francis  Beaumont 
(1584-1616)  and  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625),  each  of  whom 
wrote  plays,  but  who  are  best  known  for  plays  they  wrote 
in  collaboration.  Nearly  all  of  the  joint  plays  were  written 
before  Shakspere's  retirement  from  London ;  but  they  be- 
long chiefly  to  the  years  following  Shakspere's  greatest 
period,  —  that  is,  after  the  drama  had  passed  its  zenith. 
Of  the  fifty-two  plays  attributed  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
the  best  are  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  Philaster,  and  A  King  and 
No  King.  Virtually  none  are  acceptable  to  the  modern 
stage  or  to  modern  readers  because  of  their  low  moral  tone 
and  the  authors'  too  frequent  use  of  "common-place  ex- 
travagances and  theatrical  tricks  "  (Hazlitt). 

BEN   JONSON,    1573  7-1637 

The  greatest  of  all  Shakspere's  successors  in  the  drama 
was  Ben  Jonson,  already  named  as  Shakspere's  friend.  He 
it  was  who  said  that  the  author  of  Julius  CcBsar  and  Troilv^ 
and  Cressida  had  "  small  Latin  and  less  Greek ; "  and  the 
phrase  has  by  many  been  taken  to  mean  that  Shakspere 
was  uneducated.  That  the  words  should  not  be  so  in- 
terpreted becomes  clear  when  we  learn  that  the  expression 
is  found  in  a  poem  by  Ben  Jonson ;  for  Ben  Jonson  was  the 
most  scholarly  poet  and  dramatist  of  the  age,  and  the  advo- 
cate of  the  classic  drama  as  model  for  the  English. 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     83 


Life.  —  Ben  Jonson  was  born  in  London  about  1573.  Of 
his  early  life  we  know  merely  that  he  was  sent  to  Westminster 
School,  and  that  he 
served  a  short  time 
abroad  in  the  British 
army.  Though  he 
seems  not  to  have  at- 
tended any  university 
he  received  honorary 
degrees  from  both  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge. 
By  1598  he  was  suffi- 
ciently well  known  to 
be  named  by  Meres 
(see  page  75)  among 
the  foremost  writers  of 
tragedy.  He  was  a 
favorite  with  James 
I,  who  named  him  the 
first  Poef  Laureate  in 
1616. 

Jonson  was  afflicted 
with  disease  all  his  life, 

and  aggravated  his  trouble  by  high  living.  Though  he  re- 
ceived great  sums  from  the  King,  he  was  prodigal,  with  them, 
frequently  got  into  debt,  and  died  in  poverty  in  1637.  He 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

His  Dramas.  —  Jonson's  dramatic  work  stands  out  in 
strong  contrast  to  Shakspere's.  In  two  Roman  tragedies, 
Sejanus  and  Catiline,  his  learning  shows  in  the  extreme  ac- 
curacy  with  which  he  portrays  the  life  of  ancient  Rome; 
but  not  a  character  in  either  play  has  the  reality  of  five 


"  O  Rare  Ben  Jonson. 


84  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

or  six  in  Julius  CoBsar,  a  very  unscholarly  play.  His 
comedies  show  the  same  essential  characteristics.  The 
Alchemist,  for  example  (the  plot  of  which  Coleridge  called 
one  of  the  three  best  in  all  literature),  shows  a  minute  knowl- 
edge of  the  processes  and  terminology  of  the  so-called  science 
which  aimed  to  transmute  base  metals  into  gold ;  but  it 
suffers  for  lack  of  real  people. 

Jonson's  ideal  comedy  could  scarcely  show  characters,  as 
we  use  that  word  in  dealing  with  Shakspere.     He  wrote 


^J*^/t 


^ 


Vtt 


#■ 


Facsimile  of  Jonson's  Autograph. 
(British  Museum.) 

what  has  been  called  "  humour  "  comedy,  in  which  each 
person  is  known  by  a  peculiarity,  whim,  idiosyncrasy.  Each 
of  his  three  best  comedies,  indeed,  is  given  to  setting  forth 
the  whim  or  "  humour  "  of  one  person :  Volpone,  or  The 
Fox,  avarice ;  The  Alchemist,  hypocrisy ;  Epicoene,  or  The 
Silent  Woman,  hatred  of  noise.  The  method  was  well 
adapted  to  what  he  aimed  at  —  stripping  "  the  ragged  follies 
of  the  day ;  "  but  apparently  so  many  of  these  required  his 
attention  that  his  efforts  at  reform  were  unproductive. 

His  Masks.  ^  A  form  of  dramatic  composition  in  which 
Jonson  particularly  excelled  is  the  mask.     In  this  kind  of 


FROM  ELIZABETH  TO  CLOSING  OF  THEATRES     85 

drama,  usually  given  in  noblemen's  homes,  music  and  dancing 
were  prominent,  and  much  care  and  expense  were  devoted 
to  costumes  and  scenery.  Both  professional  and  amateur 
actors  took  part  in  them  ;  and  the  author,  who  was  generally 
also  the  director  of  the  performance,  received  large  financial 
returns.  Jonson  was  by  far  the  most  successful  writer  of 
masks  in  the  day  of  their  greatest  popularity ;  and  the 
only  really  great  specimen  of  the  form  written  after  him  is 
Milton's  Comus. 

Minor  Works.  —  Besides  his  dramatic  work,  Jonson  wrote 
a  discursive  prose  work  called  Timber,  or  Discoveries  Made 
upon  Men  and  Matter.  Doubtless  the  passage  in  this  work 
most  interesting  to  modern  readers  is  the  criticism  of  Shak- 
spere,  concluding :  "  I  loved  the  man  and  honor  his  memory, 
on  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any."  Another  field  in 
which  Jonson  wrote  much,  and  some  of  considerable  merit, 
is  lyric  poetry.     His  best-known  song  is  that  beginning: 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes," 

to  the  popularity  of  which  the  fine  old  musical  setting  has 
certainly  contributed. 

The  King  James  Bible.  —  With  all  their  claims  to  dis- 
tinction, the  writings  of  Spenser,  Bacon,  even  Shakspere, 
are  of  less  importance  than  the  translation  of  the  Bible 
made  under  King  James  and  first  published  in  IGIL  Vari- 
ous editions  had  appeared  in  the  half-century  after  Tyn- 
dale's,  and  all  met  with  a  considerable  measure  of  success. 
The  superiority  of  the  King  James,  or  "  Authorized  "  Ver- 
sion, to  its  predecessors,  however,  soon  became  apparent; 
and  the  superiority  of  its  style  is  still  unquestioned.  Its  in- 
fluence on  the  English  language  is  incalculable :  its  influence 
on  the  styles  of  our  greatest  prose  writers  is  hardly  less. 


CHAPTER  V 

FROM    THE    CLOSING    OF   THE    THEATRES    TO    THE 
RESTORATION   OF   CHARLES   II    (1642-1660) 

Rise  of  the  Puritans.  —  The  period  upon  which  we  are 
about  to  enter  is  usually  called  the  "  Puritan  Age,"  because 
the  literature  and  the  social,  civil,  and  political  life  of  the  time 
were  dominated  by  the  ideals  of  the  Puritans.  The  name 
Puritan  was  applied  in  derision  first  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century  to  a  party  within  the  Church  of  England 
who  sought  to  "  purify  "  it  of  its  unscriptural  forms  and 
ceremonies.  As  they  grew  in  numbers  and  influence,  they 
became  more  and  more  intolerant  of  the  so-called  popish 
abuses,  and  finally  seceded  from  the  Church  of  England 
and  formed  an  independent  sect. 

Independence  in  religious  belief  was  soon  accompanied  by 
independence  in  political  belief.  Opposition  to  the  Stuart 
doctrine  of  "  divine  right  of  kings,"  and  to  the  autocratic 
carrying  out  of  the  doctrine  by  Charles  I,  turned  their  ac- 
tivity toward  purification  of  the  government.  In  addition 
to  reform  of  State  and  Church  they  attempted  the  reforma- 
tion of  mankind,  by  setting  before  each  individual  a  picture 
of  that  other  world  to  come  for  which  (in  their  belief)  this 
world  was  merely  a  preparation. 

The  Puritans  and  Literature.  —  This  otherworldliness 
could  have  no  good  effect  on  literature.     One  of  the  prin- 

86 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


87 


cipal  objects  of  literature  always  has  been  to  give  pleasure ; 
and  if  the  chief  business  of  men  is  to  prepare  for  a  life  after 
death,  there  is  little  reason  for  seeking  to  give  or  gain  pleas- 
ure in  this  life  before  death.  The  Bible,  the  hymn-book, 
and  the  two-hour  sermon  were  all  the  Puritan  needed  for  in- 
tellectual food.  These 
have  value,  though  that 
of  the  seventeenth-cen- 
tury sermon  is  not  quite 
clear  to  the  twentieth- 
century  reader,  and 
there  are  comparatively 
few  hymns  that  com- 
bine the  poetical  and 
the  pious.  Cardinal 
Newman's  Lead,  Kind- 
ly Light,  for  example, 
belongs  to  quite  an- 
other school  of  thought : 
it  is  a  great  poem  as 
well  as  a  popular  hymn. 
The  greatest  litera- 
ture of  the  Elizabethan 
Age  —  the  drama,  since 


Cromwell. 
After  the  portrait  by  Sir  Peter  Lely. 


its  only  aim  was  pleasure,  very  naturally  met  with  Puritan 
disfavor,  which  brought  about  the  closing  of  the  theatres. 
Milton,  indeed,  who  is  undoubtedly  the  greatest  writer 
produced  by  the  Puritans,  was  by  no  means  typical  of  the 
party.  The  poem  of  his  old  age,  written  to  "  justify  the 
ways  of  God  to  man,"  doubtless  satisfied  Puritan  desires ; 
but  the  same  cannot  be  said  of  that  poem  of  his  young 
manhood  in  which  he  summoned  Mirth  and  her  crew  to 
keep  him  company : 


88 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


"Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathed  Snailes." 

Nor  is  it  likely  that  they  would  have  agreed  with  Milton's 
estimate  of  Shakspere  — 

"That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  woxild  wish  to  die." 

The  Royalists  and  Literature.  —  It  should  be  noted  also 
that,  while  the  period  was  dominated  by  Puritan  ideals,  by 

no  means  all  the  literature 
from  Elizabeth's  time  to  the 
Restoration  was  of  a  Puritan 
cast.  The  cause  of  the  Stuarts 
never  lacked  followers  and  sym- 
pathizers; and  among  these 
were  not  a  few  who  regarded 
literature  as  a  fine  art,  and 
devoted  themselves  to  writing 
with  aims  quite  opposed  to 
those  of  the  ruling  party. 

In  Masterman's  Age  of  Mil- 
ton,   a    small    handbook,    are 
Charles  I.  treated   seven   royalist    theolo- 

After  one  of  Van  Dyck's  numer-    gians    who    used   their    pens    to 
ous  portraits.  ,    ^^  ^,  ,.„ 

better     purpose    than    edifaca- 

tion   of  the  elect  by  long-winded  sermons.     Besides  these 

there  were   the  philosophers,    whose    investigations  almost 

invariably  put  them  into  an  attitude  never  characterized 

by  the  Pifritans  as  less  than  sceptical.     More  important 

than  either  of  these  classes  are  the  lyrists,   nearly  all  of 

whom  threw  in  their  lot  with  the  royalist  or  "cavalier" 

cause,  and  the  greatest  of  whom  —  Carew,  Lovelace,  Suck- 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  89 

ling,  and  Herrick  —  are  commonly  referred  to  as  the  Cavalier 
poets. 

Instead  of  the  designation  "  Puritan  Age,"  or  the  "  Age 
of  Milton,"  then,  it  is  more  accurate  to  call  this  the  "  Age  of 
Cavalier  and  Puritan,"  to  indicate  that  the  literature  of  the 
time  is  the  product  of  two  opposed  theories  of  government 
and  attitudes  toward  life.  The  lover  of  literature  would  not 
wish  to  dispense  with  either  portion. 

Overlapping  of  Periods.  —  Not  all  the  writers  and  works 
treated  in  this  chapter  come  within  the  dates  given  on  the 
first  page.  Milton^s  minor  poems  (except  some  of  his  son- 
nets) were  written  before  1642,  as  were  many  of  the  songs 
of  Herrick  and  Lovelace;  Suckling  died  in  1642,  Carew  in 
1638.  Milton  was  born  eight  years  before  the  death  of 
Shakspere,  Herrick  about  the  time  when  Shakspere  was 
beginning  to  write;  and  both  Herrick  and  Milton  lived 
fourteen  years  after  the  Restoration.  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
the  antiquarian  doQtor  who  requires  a  place  here,  was 
born  three  years  before  Milton,  and  outlived  the  poet  eight 
years. 

It  is,  nevertheless,  proper  to  separate  the  writers  of  the 
present  chapter  from  the  Elizabethan  period  on  one  side  and 
the  Restoration  on  the  other.  Few  of  them  possessed  the 
dramatic  gift,  none  were  so  intent  on  the  new  and  untried, 
none  so  much  the  captive  of  an  unfettered  imagination,  as 
were  the  Elizabethans.  Yet  imagination  in  no  small  degree 
is  evident  in  these  poets,  delicacy  of  feeling  and  expression 
is  found  not  universally  but  in  a  large  number  of  poems,  and 
the  prose  is  marked  by  dignity  and  formality  —  qualities 
at  variance  with  much  the  larger  part  of  Restoration  lit- 
erature. 


90 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


The  Cavalier  Poets 

We  have  remarked  above  that  many  of  the  lyric  poets  of 
the  early  seventeenth  century  adhered  to  the  Cavalier  cause, 
and  were  therefore  called  "  Cavalier  "  poets.  They  are  also 
referred  to  as  "  Caroline  "  poets,  from  their  close  association 
with  the  court  of  Charles  I.     ("  Caroline  "  is  from  Carolus, 


Reception  Hall  in  a  Typical  Cavalier  Mansion. 
Home  of  Sir  Edward  Giles,  Herrick's  most  distinguished  parishioner. 

Latin  for  Charles.)  The  four  named  as  greatest  we  are  now 
to  study  somewhat  at  length:  Thomas  Carew  (1598?- 
1638?),  Sir  John  Suckling  (1609-1642),  Richard  Lovelace 
(1618-1658),  and  Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674). 

Common  Characteristics.  —  While  their  writings  show 
many  individual  traits,  and  while  they  are  of  by  no  means 
equal  rank,  they  show  characteristics  enough  in  common  to 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  91 

justify  our  considering  them  briefly  together.  All  four  were 
born  in  the  vicinity  of  the  "  City; "  all  except  Herrick  be- 
longed to  prominent  families ;  all  came  in  early  manhood  to 
enjoy  the  favor  of  Charles ;  all  were  university  men ;  all 
except  Herrick  seem  to  have  indulged  in  the  evil  life  of  the 
Court  circle ;  and  only  Herrick  lived  past  the  age  of  forty. 

Writers  of  "  Society  Verse."  —  The  best  poems  of  all 
(except  Herrick's  religious  verse,  which  need  not  concern  us 
here)  belong  to  a  t^pe  known  as  "  society  verse."  It  is  ad- 
mirably characterized  by  Professor  Schelling : 

"  This  variety  of  the  lyric  recognizes  in  the  highly  complex 
conditions  of  modern  society  fitting  themes  for  poetry,  and  makes 
out  of  the  conventions  of  social  life  a  subject  for  art.  ...  It 
makes  demand  not  only  on  the  poet's  breeding  and  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  usages  and  varieties  of  conduct  and 
carriage  which  distinguish  his  time ;  it  demands  also  control, 
ease,  elegance  of  manner,  deheacy  of  touch,  .  .  .  perfection  of 
technique  and  finish." ' 

Faults  of  this  Kind  of  Poetry.  —  It  will  readily  be  seen  that 
the  satisfying  of  these  demands  requires  no  little  skill ;  and 
it  will  not  surprise  one  to  discover  that  few  successful  writers 
of  "  society  verse  "  avoid  altogether  certain  faults  belong- 
ing to  the  type.  It  is  charged  with  a  lack  of  seriousness, 
and  we  declare  it  guilty  on  finding  many  poems  of  the  tone 
of  this  from  Suckling : 

"Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together 
And  am  Uke  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather." 

The  charge  of  trivial  subjects  seems  to  be  sustained  by 
numerous  titles  such  as  To  My  Inconstant  Mistress  (Carew), 

»  The  English  Lyric,  pages  91-92. 


92  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Upwi  Julians  Hair  Fill'd  with  Dew  (Herrick),  Ellinda's 
Glove  (Lovelace).  The  fault  of  too  many  "  conceits " 
{i.e.,  thoughts  "  far-fetched  and  ingenious  rather  than  natural 
and  obvious  ")  is  frequent,  and  not  seldom  ridiculous.  Suck- 
ling writes : 

"Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  Uttle  mice  stole  in  and  out." 

Herrick  matches  this  with: 

"Her  pretty  feet 

Like  snails  did  creep 
A  little  out,  and  then, 
As  if  they  started  at  bo-peep, 
Did  soon  draw  in  again." 

Ellinda's  glove  is  thus  addressed  by  the  poet : 

"Thou  snowy  farm  with  thy  five  tenements!" 

And  Carew  surpasses  them  all : 

"No  more  the  frost 
Candies  the  grass,  or  casts  an  icy  cream 
Upon  the  silver  lake  or  crystal  stream." 

Lovelace.  —  Of  the  merits  of  this  school  of  poetry  the 
words  "  ease,"  "  elegance,"  "  delicacy,"  and  "  finish  "  in 
Professor  Schelling's  definition  are  the  best  indication.  Of 
the  four  Lovelace  is  perhaps  the  least  a  poet ;  yet  two  of  his 
poems  —  To  Lucasta,  On  Going  to  the  Wars,  and  To  Althea, 
from  Prison  —  would  certainly  be  selected  for  any  English 
anthology.     The  first  contains  two  lines  familiar  to  all : 

"I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more ; " 

and  the  whole  poem  is  equally  worthy  of  remembrance.  In 
the  second  are  found  also  two  lines  that  have  met  universal 
and  deserved  favor: 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  93 

"Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage." 

Suckling.  —  Carew  and  Suckling  were  closely  associated 
in  life,  and  more  continuously  in  the  Court  circle  than  the 
rest  of  the  group.  Though  Suckling  was  far  inferior  to  his 
friend  in  accomplishment,  his  genius  shows,  according  to 
Edmund  Gosse,  in  his  great  influence  on  succeeding  seven- 
teenth-century writers  of  love  songs.  Very  few  of  his  poems 
show  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable  —  he  reproved 
Carew  for  spending  too  much  time  in  polishing.  Constancy, 
from  which  a  stanza  has  been  quoted  (page  91),  and  the 
facetious  Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  f  are  fair  represen- 
tatives of  Suckling's  skill. 

Carew.  —  Carew's  work  is  often  marred  by  overemphasis 
of  the  sensual,  which  it  should  be  remembered,  however, 
was  no  offence  in  the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries.  It  is  said 
on  a  fair  basis  of  probability  that  in  his  last  years  Carew 
reformed,  and  sincerely  repented  the  wildness  of  his  life  and 
early  verse.  Disregarding  those  he  condemned  we  find 
many  poems  of  Carew  that  are  delightful  reading,  such  as 
Disdain  Returned,  beginning: 

"He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek," 
and 

"Would  you  know  what's  sort?" 

and  In  Praise  of  his  Mistress,  which  might  almost  be  set 
up  as  a  model  of  what  a  love-tribute  in  verse  should  be- 

ROBERT   HERRICK,    1591-1674 

Robert  Herrick  was  so  greatly  the  superior  of  his  fellows 
that  no  apology  is  needed  for  giving  him  fuller  treatment. 
In  our  introductory  paragraph  we  noted  that  he  was  dif- 


94 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


ferent  from  them  in  the  circumstance  of  birth,  and  in  his 
relation  to  the  life  of  the  Court  circle.  He  was  also  the 
only  one  of  the  group  to  complete  his  university  course; 
and  his  life-work,  the  ministry,  was  far  removed  from  theirs 
of  soldier,  courtier,  diplomat,  "fine  gentleman." 

Life.  —  Herrick  was  the  son  of  a  London  goldsmith,  and 
was  born  in  London  in  1591.     Upon  the  death  of  his  father 


St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 
Attended  by  Herrick,  also  by  Wyatt,  Ascham,  Jonson,  and  Wordsworth. 

in  the  following  year,  his  mother  removed  to  the  village  of 
Hampton,  about  twelve  miles  away,  where  she  and  her  son 
remained  until  his  sixteenth  year.  Apprenticed  then  to  his 
uncle,  he  spent  six  years  at  the  goldsmith's  trade  in  the 
City,  during  which  time  he  met  Ben  Jonson  and  wrote  some 
poems.  In  1613,  at  the  very  late  age  (for  those  days  —  com- 
pare Bacon,  page  57)  of  twenty-two,  Herrick  entered  the 
university  at  Cambridge,  from  which  he  received  the  Mas- 
ter's degree  four  years  later.  Of  his  life  for  the  succeeding 
ten  years  little  is  known ;  but  in  1627  he  entered  the  minis- 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


95 


try,  and  in  1629  was  made  by  Charles  I  rector  of  the  church 
at  Dean  Prior,  a  village  in  Devonshire.  It  was  an  easy, 
comfortable  position  for  a  man  of  letters ;  and  for  eighteen 
years  (i.e.,  until  removed  by  Cromwell's  government),  in 
addition  to  performing  satisfactorily  his  clerical  duties,  he 
gave  much  time  to  "  wooing  the  muse."  When  turned 
out  of  his  pulpit,  he  had  composed  over  1200  poems,  which 


Dean  Prior  Church. 

were  published  shortly  after  in  London  with  the  title  Hes- 
perides.  No  important  incident  of  his  subsequent  life 
is  recorded.  Soon  after  the  Restoration  he  was  reap- 
pointed to  his  position  at  Dean  Prior,  and  lived  there  till 
1674. 


Range  of  His  Poetry.  —  One  respect  in  which  Herri ck's 
work  surpasses  that  of  the  other  Cavaliers  is  range  of  subjects, 
a  range  claimed  by  the  author  in  the  opening  poem  of  the 
Hesperides: 


96  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and  bowers; 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers. 
I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-earts,i  wassails,  wakes ; 
Of  bride-grooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal-cakes, 
I  write  of  youth,  of  love,     .... 


I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains. 


I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  Fairy-king. 
I  write  of  hell ;   I  sing,  and  ever  shall 
Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all." 

This  poem  suggests  that  he  drew  on  every  portion  of  his 
experience  for  subjects :  and  it  is  clear  that  his  experience 
was  far  broader  than  that  of  his  companions  in  "  society 
verse."  His  long  residence  in  Devonshire  is  responsible 
for  his  verses  deaUng  with  the  various  aspects  of  nature, 
and  his  vocation  naturally  led  to  meditation  on  the  future 
life. 

That  he  aimed  as  did  hardly  another  (unless  Carew)  at 
"  perfection  of  technique  and  finish  "  is  shown  by  His  Re- 
quest  to  Julia: 

"Julia,  if  I  chance  to  die 
Ere  I  print  my  poetry, 
I  most  humbly  thee  desire 
To  commit  it  to  the  fire  : 
Better  'twere  my  book  were  dead. 
Than  to  live  not  perfected." 

Pastoral  Poems.  —  Judged  by  an  absolute  standard,  — 
if  such  a  thing  be  possible,  —  Herrick  is  probably  more  the 
artist  in  his  poems  to  Julia,  Silvia,  Sapho,  in  How  Roses 
Came  Red,  To  the  Virgins  to  Make  Mvx;h  of  Time,  and  other 

1  The  hock-cart  (for  "hockey-cart")  was  the  last  cart  loaded  at  harvest. 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


97 


little  masterpieces  in  the  field  of  "  society  verse."  The 
most  competent  critics  agree,  however,  that  his  country 
poems,  his  "  English  pastorals,"  are  altogether  admirable. 
Corinna's  Going  a-Maying  is  a  charming  picture  of  one 
phase  of  life  in  a  Devonshire  village,  idealized,  it  is  true, 
but  none  the  less  charming  for  that  reason.  The  song.  To 
Phillis,  beginning  — 

"Live,  live  with  me,  and  thou  shalt  see 
The  pleasures  I'll  prepare  for  thee," 

does  not  suffer  by  comparison  with  Marlowe's 

"Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love," 

and  is  not  without  merit  when  set  over  against  U  Allegro. 

Herrick's  Limitations.  —  With  all  his  merits  Herrick  can 
not  be  called  a  poet  of  the  first  rank.  We  demand  of  our 
great  poets    something 


HES9  E^I'DES:  ,^; 

THE  WORKS 

BOTH 

HUMANE  &  DIVINE 

O  F 

Ro  BERT  Herrick  FJo. 


more  than  good  taste, 
elegance,  ease,  finish : 
we  demand  something 
vital  in  the  content  of 
their  work,  something 
that  touches  deep 
chords  in  human  ex- 
perience, something 
that  points  the  way 
to  better  things.  This 
no  one  will  find  in 
Herrick. 

Not  only  are  his  poems  of  the  earth  earthy:  they  are  of 
the  earth  of  Charles  the  First's  England,  an  unusually 
earthy  time.  He  was  in  entire  harmony  with  his  sur- 
roundings,   and    these    neither    gave   rise    to    nor    desired 


O  V  I  o. 

B^ugUm  fvidts  Cirmin*  neftn  Rt^os. 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Hesperides. 


OS 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


literature  whicli  should  uplift  or  inspire.  The  utter  world- 
Uness  of  this  literature,  reflecting  the  time,  gives  us  a  clew 
to  the  progress  of  the  Puritan  movement  and  to  the  final 
(though  temporary)  triumph  of  the  "  otherworldliness  "  to 
which  reference  has  been  made.  The  chief  representative 
of  the  triumphant  spirit  was 

JOHN    MILTON,    1608-1674 

The  opinion  has  been  expressed  above  that  Milton  was 
not  typical  of  Puritanism,  and  that  certain  sentiments  in 

his  early  poems  can  hardly 
have  met  with  Puritan  ap- 
proval. His  whole-souled 
devotion  to  literature  as  an 
art,  except  during  the  time 
of  his  government  service, 
is  another  characteristic  that 
shows  lack  of  sympathy  with 
his  sect.  His  attitude  to- 
ward life  and  toward  his 
work  is  remote,  indeed, 
from  that  of  the  Cavalier 
poets;  but  it  is  almost 
equally  remote  from  any- 
thing expressed  in  literature 
by  members  of  the  oppo- 
site party.  The  mirth  of 
L' Allegro  is  not  of  close  kin  to  that  of  Charles  the  First's 
poets ;  and  the  melancholy  of  II  Penseroso  has  equally  slight 
resemblance  to  that  of  the  followers  of  Cromwell.  The 
former  is  always  under  the  control  of  a  cultured  mind ;  the 
latter  shows  no  trace  of  the  long  face  or  the  whine  of  the 
Protector's  psalm-singing  "  Ironsides." 


Milton. 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


90 


Periods  of  Milton's  Life.  —  Milton's  life  and  writings  fall 
into  three  clearly  defined  periods :  first,  his  education  and 
foreign  travel,  and  his  minor  poems;  second,  his  secretary- 
ship for  foreign  tongues  under  Cromwell,  and  his  prose 
works;  third,  his  retirement  from  public  view,  and  his 
major  poems. 


MlLTOV's    MULBEURY. 


In  Christ's  College  Gardens  - 


■said  to  have  been  planted  by  Milton  in 
1632. 


Early  Life  and  Education.  —  The  poet  was  born  in  London, 
December  9,  1608,  in  a  house  which  came  to  be  a  literary 
shrine,  but  which  was  destroyed  in  the  great  fire  of  1666. 
His  father  was  a  scrivener,  an  occupation  combining  duties 
of  a  lawyer  and  broker.  Of  his  mother  virtually  nothing  is 
known.  After  a  careful  preliminary  training  under  tutors 
and  at  St.  Paul's  School,  London,  Milton  entered  Christ's 
College,  Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  seventeen.  There  he  re- 
niained  seven  years,  receiving  the  degrees  of  A.B.  and  A.M. 


100  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Partly  from  his  delicate  beauty,  partly  from  the  correctness 
of  his  life,  probably  not  at  all  from  any  effeminacy  or  exces- 
sive display  of  religion,  he  was  nicknamed  at  the  University 
"  The  Lady  of  Christ's."  He  himself  expresses  satisfaction 
at  the  "  more  than  ordinary  respect  "  shown  him  in  his 
College, 

Retirement  at  Horton ;  and  Foreign  Travel.  —  Though 
from  an  early  age  Milton  had  been  designed  for  the  ministry, 
he  was  not  disposed,  on  graduation,  to  enter  that  calling. 
He  was,  in  fact,  not  disposed  to  take  up  any  remunerative 
occupation ;  and  with  his  father's  full  consent,  he  spent  the 
succeeding  five  years  in  self-directed  study  at  Horton,  a 
country  place  some  twenty  miles  from  London,  where  his 
father  had  settled  on  retiring  from  business. 

A  desire  to  complete  his  education  in  accepted  fashion  led 
him  to  make  a  tour  on  the  Continent.  With  excellent  in- 
troductions to  literary  and  learned  circles,  he  left  England  in 
April,  1638,  and  spent  sixteen  months  abroad,  visiting  Paris, 
Genoa,  Florence,  Rome,  Naples,  and  meeting  Grotius,  the 
famous  Swedish  diplomat,  and  Galileo.  Milton's  original 
itinerary  included  Sicily  and  Greece ;  but  at  Naples,  he  re- 
ceived news  of  impending  civil  war  in  England,  and  turned 
back.  "  For  I  considered  it  base,"  said  he,  "  that,  while 
my  countrymen  were  fighting  at  home  for  liberty,  I  should 
be  travelling  abroad  at  ease  for  intellectual  culture." 

Poems  of  the  First  Period.  —  With  his  landing  in  England 
in  August,  1639,  the  first  period  of  Milton's  life  ends.  His 
writings  during  this  time  include  some  poems  in  Latin  and 
Italian,  paraphrases  of  two  of  the  Psalms,  two  sonnets,  and 
seventeen  other  English  poems.  Of  these  the  most  worthy 
of  notice  are  L' Allegro  and  //  Penseroso,  the  companion  pieces 
on  mirth  and  melancholy  already  mentioned ;   On  the  Mom- 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  101 

ing  of  Christ's  Nativity;  the  mask  of  Comus;  and  the  pastoral, 
memorial  poem  Lycidas.  The  Nativity  ode  was  composed 
while  he  was  still  at  the  University ;  Comus  and  Lycidas  belong 
to  the  Horton  years ;  and  all  the  available  evidence  justifies 
us  in  assigning  U Allegro  and  //  Penseroso  also  to  Horton. 

"  Comus."  —  Comus  is  considered  by  Masson  ^  the  most 
important  of  Milton's  minor  p)oems.  It  is,  as  has  been 
said,^  the  only  great  mask  written  after  the  time  of  Ben 
Jonson.  A  mask  usually  inculcated  a  moral ;  and  Milton's 
moral  is  quite  suited  to  the  Puritan.  Comus,  the  god  of 
sensual  pleasure,  after  being  withstood  for  a  time  by  youth- 
ful innocence,  is  finally  routed  by  an  Attendant  Spirit  sent 
from  heaven.  The  closing  lines  of  the  poem  express  the 
moral  in  a  speech  by  the  Spirit : 

"Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue ;   she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb  — 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her." 

"  Lycidas."  —  Lycidas  was  written  for  a  collection  of 
poems  in  memory  of  Edward  King,  a  college  friend  of  Milton, 
who  was  drowned  in  the  Irish  Sea.  The  name  Lycidas  is 
common  in  classic  and  pastoral  poetry,  and  was  used  by 
Milton  because  King  was  ambitious 

"To  tend  the  homely,  sUghted,  shepherd's  trade," 

that  is,  to  write  poetry.  It  is  full  of  classical  allusions  and 
imagery,  but  is  amply  worth  any  effort  necessary  to  under- 

'  David  Masson  is  the  authority  on  Milton's  life,  and  wrote  an  ex- 
haustive biography  in  six  volumes.  He  also  edited  Milton's  poetical 
works  in  three  volumes,  with  extensive  introductions  and  notes. 

*  See  page  85. 


102  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

stand  it.     Perhaps  the  finest  and  certainly  the  most  memo- 
rable passages  in  Lycidas  are  those  dealing  with  the  low  state 


^^t  M^t  "(i.t^-ctM^  i*ftx.rjLLi  nt.aatxjrt' 
][UjaAr^^*r^'^^^M  ^Mn^fi^  ^ft^  s^,>'^ 


Milton's  Bible. 

The  first  six  entries  are  believed  to  be  in  his  liandwriting. 

(British  Museum.) 

of  contemporary  poetry  (lines  64-83)  and  the  corruption  in 
the  clergy   (lines  108-131).     Although,  as  has  been  often 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  103 

said,  these  passages  are  in  a  sense  digressions,  they  are 
justified  by  the  facts  that  King  wrote  poetry  and  that  he 
was  destined  for  the  ministry. 

"  L'Allegro  "  and  "  II  Penseroso."  —  U Allegro  and  // 
Penseroso  are  constructed  on  exactly  the  same  plan,  be- 
ginning with  the  exorcism  (in  ten  lines)  of  the  opposing 
spirit  — 

in  V Allegro, 

"Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born ;  " 

in  II  Penseroso, 

"Hence,  vain,  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred!" 

Then  follows  the  invitation  to  the  congenial  spirit  — 

in  U Allegro, 

"But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; " 

in  //  Penseroso, 

"But,  hail!   thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy!" 

A  list  of  characters  (mostly  personified  figures)  desired  for 
company  is  given ;  and  the  remainder  of  each  poem  out- 
lines an  ideal  day.  The  day  of  L'Allegro,  that  is,  of  the 
mirthful  or  cheerful  man,  begins  with  the  lark's  song  before 
dawn,  proceeds  through  a  series  of  rural  occupations  till  bed- 
time, and  then  removes  to  "towered  cities,"  where  after 
attending  "  high  triumphs  "  (elaborate  entertainments)  for 
a  time :  • 


104  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  i  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

The  day  of  //  Penseroso,  that  is,  of  the  thoughtful  or  con- 
templative^ man,  begins  at  evening,  with  the  nightingale's 
song,  spends  the  night  in  study  or  quiet  recreations ;    and 


Windsor  Castle. 
The  "  towers  and  battlements  "  of  L' Allegro. 

when  the  sun  comes  up,  seeks  protection  from  its  beams  in 
groves  or  the  "  studious  cloister's  pale." 

Milton's  Prose  Period.  —  We  resume  now  the  account  of 
Milton's  life,  which  we  interrupted  at  the  time  of  his  return 
from  the  Continent  in  1639.  The  storm  of  the  Civil  War 
did  not  burst  immediately,  and  Milton  set  up  as  schoolmaster 

'  The  sock  stands  for  comedy. 

*  These  adjectives  express  better  the  idea  of  Milton  than  does  "mel- 
ancholy." 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  105 

primarily  to  teach  two  nephews,  but  taking  other  pupils 
in  addition.  Partly  as  a  result  of  this  experience,  he  wrote 
a  treatise  on  education,  the  first  of  the  works  written  with  his 
"  left  hand  "  (as  he  himself  described  his  prose  works). 
Other  prose  works  belonging  to  this  period,  of  which  we  need 
not  give  even  the  titles,  were  attacks  on  the  church  as  it 
had  come  to  be  conducted  under  Charles's  unprincipled 
assistant,  Archbishop  Laud ;  and  a  series  of  papers  defend- 
ing divorce. 

Papers  on  Divorce.  —  The  occasion  of  these  last  was  his 
marriage  to  Mary  Powell,  a  girl  about  half  his  age;  and 
her  virtual  desertion  of  him  in  two  months.  She  went  os- 
tensibly for  a  short  visit  to  her  parents ;  and  when  she  did 
not  return  at  the  appointed  time,  or  yet  after  several  requests 
by  her  husband,  he  wrote  his  first  divorce  paper,  in  which  he 
showed  no  personal  interest.  In  three  following  papers, 
however,  he  made  a  vigorous  argument  for  divorce ;  and  in 
the  last  intimated  that,  if  his  wife  did  not  return,  he  might 
marry  again,  with  the  sanction  of  the  law  or  without.  Not 
many  months  afterward  Mary  Powell  Milton  again  took 
up  her  residence  with  the  poet,  after  an  absence  of  two 
years.  She  lived  until  1653,  and  was  survived  by  three 
daughters. 

"  Areopagitica."  —  Milton's  one  essay  in  prose  which  is 
still  of  interest  to  the  general  reader  is  Areopagitica,  a  plea 
for  the  liberty  of  the  press ;  that  is,  for  the  liberty  of  pub- 
lishing books  without  authority  of  the  censor.  When  Mil- 
ton said  that  in  writing  prose  he  had  the  use  of  only  his 
left  hand,  he  meant  that  prose  was  not  his  proper  vehicle  of 
expression;  and  this  fact  is  apparent  even  in  Areopagitica, 
great  as  are  its  merits.  Sentences  of  more  than  a  hundred 
words  are  frequent ;  and  he  uses  an  involved  sentence  struc- 


106  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ture  that  sounds  like  literal  translation  from  Latin.  When 
we  think,  however,  of  what  the  world  would  be  to-day  without 
freedom  of  the  press,  we  realize  the  interest  an  eloquent  plea 
for  that  freedom  is  likely  to  have  for  us.  This  of  Milton's 
has,  moreover,  many  passages  so  forceful  and  every  way 
admirable  that  they  have  passed  into  common  speech: 

"  Opinion  in  good  men  is  but  knowledge  in  the  making." 
"  As  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good  book :  who  kills  a 
man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's  image ;  but  he  who  de- 
stroys a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the  image  of  God,  as 
it  were  in  the  eye." 

"  Give  me  the  liberty  to  know,  to  utter,  and  to  argue  freely, 
above  all  other  liberties." 

Papers  on  the  Execution  of  Charles.  —  The  remainder  of 
Milton's  prose  is  occupied  with  a  defence  of  the  Puritans 
for  their  execution  of  Charles.  The  papers  are  all  contro- 
versial, and  are  marred  by  undignified  and  harsh  language 
that  one  would  wish  to  think  not  natural  to  the  writer. 

In  1656  Milton  married  Catherine  Woodcock,  with  whom 
(if  we  may  judge  from  his  twenty-third  sonnet)  he  lived  not 
unhappily  until  her  death,  fifteen  months  afterward.  Since 
1652  he  had  been  totally  blind,  a  result,  doubtless,  of  ex- 
cessive use  of  his  eyes.  On  the  subject  of  his  blindness  he 
wrote  one  of  his  greatest  sonnets,  closing  with  the  memorable 
line, 

"They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Milton's  Sonnets.  —  A  word  should  be  said  regarding 
Milton's  contribution  to  the  development  of  the  English 
sonnet.  In  the  words  of  Mark  Pattison  :  "  Milton  emanci- 
pated the  sonnet  as  to  subject-matter."  The  Elizabethan 
sonnet,  we  have  seen,  was  usually  concerned  with  love; 
and  Shakspere,  Sidney,  Spenser,  and  the  rest  wrote  sonnet 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


107 


sequences  in  praise  of  their  beloveds.  Not  a  single  one  of 
Milton's  twenty-three  sonnets  deals  with  love.  Besides  On 
His  Blindness,  some  other  titles  are :  When  the  Assault  was 
Intended  to  the  City,  On  the  Lord  General  Fairfax,  To  the 
Lord  General  Cromwell,  On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont. 
After  him  the  sonnet  fell  into  disuse  for  a  century  and  a 


Library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
Depository  of  Milton  manuscripts. 

quarter;  and  it  is  open  to  question  whether  Wordsworth, 
innovator  that  he  was,  would  have  been  impelled  to  so  fre- 
quent use  of  the  form  had  not  Milton  pointed  the  way  to 
its  use  in  other  service  than  that  of  love. 

Life  after  the  Restoration.  —  While  much  is  to  be  said  of 
Milton's  writings  after  the  Restoration,  little  need  be  said  of 
his  life.  When  the  change  in  government  came,  he,  like  all 
others  who  had  been  prominent  in  the  Commonwealth,  was 


108 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


in  grave  danger.  For  a  short  time  he  was  imprisoned,  and 
for  some  time  after  release  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  re- 
main in  hiding.  In  1667  Paradise  Lost  was  pubUshed ;  in 
1671,  Paradise    Regained,  and  the  dramatic  poem  Samson 

Agonistes.  He  died  in 
1674,  so  peacefully  that 
those  in  the  room  were 
not  aware  when  he  ac- 
tually breathed  his  last^ 

"  Paradise  Lost " : 
(i)  Its  Influence.  — 
The  influence  of  Para- 
dise Lost  upon  the 
thought  of  English- 
speaking  people  has 
been  perhaps  greater 
than  that  of  any  other 
poem,  the  most  impor- 
tant phase  of  the  in- 
fluence being  the  doctrine  of  creation.  Huxley,  in  the  first 
of  his  lectures  on  evolution,  delivered  in  America  in  1876, 
attacked  what  he  called  the  "Miltonic  hypothesis  "  of  crea- 
tion. He  asserted  that,  although  he  did  not  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  and  although  Hebrew 
scholars  were  not  agreed  as  to  its  meaning,  Milton's  inter- 
pretation in  the  seventh  book  of  Paradise  Lost  is  quite  clear, 
and  is  also  clearly  the  interpretation  "  instilled  into  every 
one  of  us  in  our  childhood."  Wherever  the  truth  may  lie, 
it  is  surely  a  great  accomplishment  to  have  formulated  a 
great  doctrine  for  .so  large  a  portion  of  mankind. 

(2)  Its  Planning  and  Maturing.  —  The  actual  composition 
of  Paradise  Lost  appears  to  have  occupied  Milton  for  eight 


Memoiual  to  Milton. 
In  the  Church  at  St.  Giles. 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


109 


years,  beginning  in  1657  and  ending  in  1665,  t\yo  years  be- 
fore it  was  published.  The  intention  to  write  a  long  poem 
had  been  in  his  mind 
for  at  least  twenty- 
years.  When  he  re- 
turned from  his  foreign 
tour,  he  indicated  a 
plan  for  an  epic  of  King 
Arthur,  although  he  was 
considering  about  a 
hundred  other  subjects 
at  the  same  time  — 
some  from  the  Bible, 
some  from  British  his- 
tory, and  a  few  from 
Scottish.  (The  list  in 
his  own  handwriting  is 
preserved  in  Trinity 
College  Library,  Cam- 
bridge.) 

While  he  was  weigh- 
ing these  subjects,  he 
expressed  in  a  pamphlet 
the  hope  that  he  "  might 
perhaps  leave  some- 
thing so  written  to 
aftertimes  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die."  How 
soon  he  determined  on  subject  and  form  we  cannot  say.  His 
nephew  says  that  the  speech  of  Satan  in  Book  IV,  beginning : 

"O,  thou  that  with  surpassing  glory  crowned," 

was  recited  to  him  by  the  poet  as  the  beginning  of  his  poem ; 
and  it  is  thought  by  some  that  these  lines  date  from  1640- 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Paradise 
Lost. 

Under  the  portrait  of  this  edition  (Ton- 
son's,  1688)  are  Dryden's  famous  lines, 
beginning, 

"Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born." 


no  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

1642.  Through  long  years  full  of  hindrances  and  uncongenial 
employment  under  the  Commonwealth  he  cherished  the  de- 
sign for  a  great  literary  work  which  later  times  would  value. 

(3)  Theme  of  the  Poem.  —  The  theme  of  Paradise  Lost 
has  been  stated  above  (page  87).  The  invocation  to  the 
Spirit  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem  concludes : 

.  .  .  "what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine,  what  is  low,  raise  and  support : 
That  to  the  highth  of  this  great  argfument, 
I  may  assert  Eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  many 

(4)  Outline.  —  The  action  (but  not  the  poem)  begins  in 
Heaven  before  the  creation  of  the  world,  the  fall  of  Lucifer, 
or  the  begetting  of  the  Son.  In  Book  V  we  learn  that 
Raphael  has  been  sent  to  warn  Adam  of  his  enemy's  approach ; 
and  from  the  narrative  of  Raphael  to  Adam  we  learn  how  the 
jealousy  of  Lucifer  and  his  rebellion  occurred.  In  Book  VI 
we  are  told  how  the  forces  of  Lucifer  (now  called  Satan), 
after  two  days  of  drawn  battles  with  God's  legions  are 
routed  the  third  day  by  the  Messiah,  and  sent  down  to  Hell. 
In  Book  IX  comes  the  temptation  and  fall  of  Adam  and 
Eve;  and  at  the  close  of  the  last  Book  (XII)  they  are  led 
out  of  Eden  by  the  Archangel  Michael,  with  the  fiery  sword 
of  God  behind  them: 

"They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side  beheld 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand ;   the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arras. 
Some  natural  tears  they  dropped,  but  wiped  them  soon ; 
The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps  and  slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  soUtary  wajf." 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  111 

(5)  The  Sublimity  of  the  Poem.  —  A  stupendous  task, 
truly,  the  poet  set  himself;  and  the  nature  of  his  subject 
was  such  that,  if  he  attained  a  measure  of  success  in  handling 
it,  the  epithet  "  sublime  "  would  properly  attach  to  it ;  and 
the  "  sublimity "  of  Paradise  Lost  has  been  repeatedly 
dwelt  upon.  Of  no  other  work  of  literature  is  the  word 
more  fittingly  used.  The  speeches  of  Satan  deserve  it  no 
less  than  those  of  Uriel  and  Raphael ;  as,  for  example,  that  in 
Book  II  (lines  119-225)  containing  among  many  memorable 
passages  this : 

"And  that  must  end  us ;   that  must  be  our  cure  — 
To  be  no  more.     Sad  cure !   for  who  would  lose, 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of- uncreated  Night 
Devoid  of  sense  and  motion?" 

The  many  "  muster-rolls  of  names,"  as  Macaulay  calls 
them,  almost  equally  deserve  the  epithet  (cf.  I,  392  ff.,  be- 
ginning, "  First,  Moloch,  horrid  king  ")■ 

The  elaborate  similes,  so  numerous  in  the  poem,  are  like- 
wise worthy  to  be  called  sublime ;  such  as  the  famous  one  in 
Book  IX  (lines  445  ff.),  beginning 

"As  one  who,  long  in  populous  city  pent." 

The  faults  of  Paradise  Lost  it  is  not  worth  while  to  men- 
tion here :  compared  with  its  merits,  they  sink  almost  into 
insignificance.  When  everything  possible  by  way  of  criti- 
cism has  been  said,  it  is  still  universally  admitted  that  the 
poem  has  "  a  sustained  magnificence  of  poetic  conception, 
and  of  poetic  treatment  in  the  solemn  and  serious  way  " 
possessed  by  no  other  English  poem  and  by  not  more  than 
two  or  three  of  the  world's  poems. 


112 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


"Paradise  Regained."  —  Tradition,  powerfully  aided  by 
Macaulay,  says  that  Milton  preferred  Paradise  Regained, 
sequel  of  Paradise  Lost,  to  its  predecessor.  The  idea  seems 
to  be  traceable  to  a  statement  of  one  of  the  poet's  nephews, 
who  merely  said  that  Milton  "  could  not  hear  with  patience  " 
the  second  epic  criticised  as  inferior  to  the  first.     Both  critical 


al 

_^ 

^f*:' . 

'"^^s^^BJHpn^ 

^mW- 

Milton  Dictating  Paradise  Lost. 
From  the  painting  by  Munkacsy. 

and  uncritical  opinion  in  general  believes  that  Paradise  Re- 
gained is  inferior,  though  enthusiasts  (Masson  and  Saints- 
bury,  for  example)  assert  that  the  difference  between  them  is 
rather  of  kind  than  of  degree  of  merit. 

"Samson  Agonistes."  —  Milton's  last  work  was  Samson 
Agonistes,  a  tragedy  in  verse  built  on  the  classic  model  in- 
stead of  on  the  English,  and  not  intended  to  be  staged.  It 
derives  some  interest  from  the  parallelism  of  Samson's  story 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  113 

(see  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  Judges)  with  Milton's  own.  The 
poem  has  unquestionably  noble  passages;  but  dramatic 
blank  verse  should  be  of  a  different  kind  from  epic,  and  it 
cannot  be  said  without  qualification  that  Samson  is  a  great 
English  poem.  Some  have  thought  that  in  one  speech  of 
Samson's  (lines  594-596)  the  writer  voices  his  own  con- 
sciousness of  something  very  like  failure : 

•"So  much  I  feel  my  genial  spirits  droop. 
My  hopes  all  flat :  Nature  within  me  seems 
In  all  her  functions  weary  of  herself." 

A  Soul  Dwelling  Apart.  —  Noble  and  glorious  as  is  Mil- 
ton's career  in  many  aspects,  in  none  is  it  more  so  than  in 
that  which  considers  the  work  of  his  last  years  beside  the 
work  turned  out  to  meet  a  popular  demand.  A  dissolute 
and  debauched  Court  called  for  and  obtained  a  literature 
as  dissolute  and  debauched  as  any  nation  can  show,  of  which 
more  must  be  said  in  our  next  chapter.  It  was  in  such  an 
environment,  and  utterly  regardless  of  the  reception  ac- 
corded them,  that  Milton  produced  the  three  great  poems 
just  discussed.     In  the  language  of  Wordsworth's  sonnet: 

"Thy  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness ;   and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay."  ^ 

SIR   THOMAS   BROWNE,    1605-1682 

A  Seventeenth-century  Neutral.  —  During  the  great 
conflict  which  shook  England  in  the  seventeenth  century 


1  The  sonnet  is  entitled  London  1802,  and  begins  "Milton!    thou 
shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour." 


114 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Sir  Thomas  Browne. 


few  men  of  force  remained  aloof.  Whether  they  joined  whole- 
souled  one  side  or  the  other,  most  men  felt  it  necessary  to 
ally  themselves  with  Pm-itans  or  Royalists.  Among  those 
who  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  their  way  was  Thomas  Browne, 

physician,  antiquarian,  and  mas- 
ter of  a  sonorous  and  finely 
rhetorical  English  prose.  Had 
he  felt  with  Macaulay^  that  it 
was  a  "  conflict  between  Oro- 
masdes  and  Arimanes,^  liberty 
and  despotism,  reason  and  pre- 
judice," we  do  not  imagine  he 
would  have  hesitated  to  place 
his  allegiance.  Possessing  a 
singularly  well-balanced  mind, 
he  could  see  even  at  close  range  that  there  was  "  a  good 
deal  of  Arimanes  on  both  sides  "  (Matthew  Arnold).  Hence 
he  did  not  join  either  of  the  contending  parties,  but  lived  his 
long  life  in  the  peaceful  practice  of  his  profession  and  the 
indulgence  of  his  passion  for  the  strange  and  the  ancient. 

Life.  —  He  was  born  in  London  in  1605,  son  of  a  pros- 
perous merchant.  After  attending  school  in  Winchester,  he 
entered  at  the  age  of  eighteen  Pembroke  College,  Oxford, 
from  which  he  was  graduated  A.B.  and  A.M.  He  then 
traveled  on  the  Continent,  studying  at  several  famous  medical 
schools,  and  receiving  his  first  medical  degree  from  Leyden 
in  1633.  On  his  return  he  took  up  residence  in  a  hamlet 
in  Yorkshire,  and  began  the  practice  of  his  profession.  Four 
years  later  he  received  his  M.D.  from  Oxford,  and  then 
moved  to  Norwich,  county  of  Norfolk,  where  he  spent  the 


>  These  are  the  names  of  the  spirit  of  good  and  the  spirit  of  evil  in 
Persian  mythology.     The  more  usual  forms  are  Ormazd  and  Ahriman. 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER 


115 


HYDRIOTAPHIA 

o  R,         /y  >^/^ 

A  Difcourfc  oftlie  Sepulclirall  | 
Urnes  lately  found  in 

D^  0  %  h  0  L  K^ 

together  rrith 

The  Garden  of  f  T  !Z?:  "i;  5", ' 
OR    THE 

Quincunciall,    Lozenge,     or 

Net-work  riantations  at  the  Am 

cicnts,  Artificially,  Naturally, 

Myftically  ConfiJcreJ. 

With  Sundry  Obrcrvatioiii. 

i 

By  Thomas  Browne  D.of  Phylick*     | 

PiinteU  Ibr  Hen.  Brpme  at  the  Signcof  the 
Cva'm  Jvj-i'M.  16^9.- 


remaining  forty-five  years  of  his  life.    Of  him  and  the  lady 

whom  he  married  it  was  said  that  "  they  seemed  to  come 

together  by  a  kind  of  mutual  magnetism."    They  reared 

twelve     children,      of 

whom,    however,    only 

four     outlived      their 

father.  In  1671  Charles 

II,  while  on  a  visit  to 

Norwich,       recognized 

the   learned   doctor  of 

the  city  by  knighting 

him.    Sir  Thomas  died 

in  1682. 

Four  works  of  Browne 
appeared  during  his  life- 
time :  Religio  Medici 
("  Religion  of  a  Physi- 
cian ") ;  Pseudodoxia 
Epidemica,  or  Enquiries 
into  Vulgar  Errors; 
H ydriotaphia,  or  tfm- 
Burial;  and  The  Gar- 
den of  Cyrus.  A  vol- 
ume on  Christian  Mor- 
als, and  some  letters, 
were  published  after  his 
death.  Though  Urn- 
Burial  is  by  the  learned 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Hydriota- 
PHIA,  First  Edition. 

(New  York  Public  Library.) 


proclaimed  to  be   Browne's   best  work,    Religio  Medici  is 
certainly  of  more  general  interest. 


"  Religio  Medici."  —  In  the  preface  we  are  informed  that 
the  author  did  not  write  his  confession  of  faith  for  publica- 


116  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

tiou.  It  was,  instead,  written,  he  says,  "  for  my  private 
exercise  and  satisfaction ;  .  .  .  and  being  a  private  exercise 
directed  to  myself,  what  is  delivered  therein  was  rather  a 
memorial  unto  me  than  an  example  or  rule  unto  any  other." 
Circulated  in  manuscript,  it  was  copied  by  many ;  and  finally 
got  into  print  "  in  a  most  depraved  copy."  In  order  to 
justify  himself  he  published  in  the  following  year  an  au- 
thorized edition. 

How  Religio  Medici  could  have  been  a  "  rule  "  to  many  is 
difficult  to  see.  It  contains  a  curious  mixture  of  so-called 
orthodoxy  and  heresy,  of  the  most  conventional  thinking 
and  the  most  progressive.  He  accepts  the  doctrine  of  eternal 
punishment,  but  rejects  the  doctrine  of  a  hell  of  fire :  "  I 
feel  sometimes  a  hell  within  myself ;  Lucifer  keeps  his  Court 
in  my  breast."  His  belief  in  miracles  would  satisfy  the  ex- 
tremest  Puritan ;  but  he  also  believed  that  "  many  are  saved 
who  to  men  seem  reprobated,  and  many  are  reprobated  who 
in  the  opinion  and  sentence  of  man  stand  elected  "  —  a  belief 
to  which  scarcely  a  follower  of  Cromwell  would  assent. 

The  second  part  of  the  book  is  devoted  to  the  "  virtue  of 
charity,"  with  which  the  author's  contemporaries  were  so 
slightly  blessed,  and  the  author  himself  so  richly.  Nothing 
could  show  better  than  does  this  section  Browne's  lack  of 
sympathy  with  his  time  —  "I  am  of  a  constitution  so  gen- 
eral," he  says,  "  that  it  consorts  and  sympathiseth  with  all 
things."  And  again :  "  In  all  disputes,  so  much  as  there  is 
of  passion,  so  much  there  is  of  nothing  to  the  purpose ;  for 
then  reason,  like  a  bad  hound,  spends  upon  a  false  scent,  and 
forsakes  the  question  first  started."  What  a  commentary 
on  this  sentiment  is  the  action  of  Parliament  in  conferring 
virtually  absolute  power  on  Cromwell  just  seven  years  after 
it  had  executed  Charles  for  exercising  power  no  more  ab- 
solute I 


PURITAN  AND  CAVALIER  117 

A  typical  passage,  showing  the  characteristics  of  his 
vocabulary  and  his  sentence-structure,  is  a  fine  one  on 
music,  which  in  DeQuincey's  opinion  is  one  of  the  two 
things  "  said  adequately  on  the  subject  of  music  in  all 
literature."  ^ 

"  It  is  my  temper,  and  I  like  it  the  better,  to  affect  all 
harmony;  and  sure  there  is  music  even  in  the  beauty, 
and  the  silent  note  which  Cupid  strikes,  far  sweeter  than 
the  sound  of  an  instrument.  For  there  is  music  wherever 
there  is  a  harmony,  order,  or  proportion ;  and  thus  far  we 
may  maintain  the  music  of  the  spheres;  for  those  well- 
ordered  motions  and  regular  paces,  though  they  give  no 
sound  unto  the  ear,  yet  to  the  understanding  they  strike  a 
note  most  full  of  harmony.  Whosoever  is  harmonically 
composed  delights  in  harmony ;  which  makes  me  much  dis- 
trust the  symmetry  of  those  heads  which  declaim  against 
all  church  music.  For  myself,  not  only  from  my  obedience, 
but  my  particular  genius,  I  do  embrace  it ;  for  even  that 
vulgar  and  tavern  music,  which  makes  one  man  merry, 
another  mad,  strikes  in  me  a  deep  fit  of  devotion,  and  a 
profound  contemplation  of  the  First  Composer." 

'  The  other  cited  by  DeQuincey  is  in  Twelfth  Night,  I,  i. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PROM    THE    RESTORATION    OF    CHARLES    II    TO    THE 
DEATH   OF  DRYDEN    (1660-1700) 

Puritan  Repression.  —  It  will  be  readily  inferred  from 
what  has  been  said  in  the  preceding  chapter  that  life  under 
Puritan  government  was  not  happy.  A  certain  sort  of 
people  will  perhaps  always  derive  a  certain  sort  of  pleasure 
from  a  life  of  repression,  self-denial,  and  prohibition  of  all 
forms  of  amusement;  but  the  class  is  never  numerous, 
and  it  is  likely  to  decrease  when  the  period  of  repression  is 
too  long  extended.  It  must  be  kept  in  mind  that  in  this 
instance  the  prohibitions  arose  not  because  of  the  effect  on 
the  amusers,  but  because  of  that  on  the  amused.  The  Puri- 
tans prohibited  bear  baiting,  not  because  it  gave  pain  to 
the  bears  but  because  it  gave  pleasure  to  the  spectators. 

The  Change  in  Government.  —  The  great  majority  of 
Englishmen  had  doubtless  wearied  of  the  Puritan  regime 
long  before  the  end  came.  Cromwell,  however,  by  his 
overmastering  personality,  became  autocrat  in  fact  if  not  in 
name  in  1653  ;  and  he  forced  the  distasteful  life  on  the  people 
for  five  years  longer.  At  his  death  his  son  Richard  succeeded 
to  the  title  of  Lord  Protector ;  but  having  no  ability  or  taste 
for  leadership,  he  resigned  in  six  months.  After  about 
nine  months  of  a  pretence  of  government  by  the  military 
leaders,  General  Monk  gained  control  of  London,  and  brought 
about  the  election  of  a  "  free  Parliament,"  which  immedi- 
ately invited  Charles  II  to  return  and  take  his  kingdom. 

118 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEN      119 

The  Change  in  Life.  —  Charles  and  his  followers  had  been 
in  exile  on  the  Continent,  chiefly  in  France,  during  the  Com- 
monwealth. They  were  a  pleasure-loving,  extravagant  lot, 
who  had  been  entertained  almost  to  satiety  by  the  gay  nation. 
On  reaching  England  they  set  to  work  to  make  over  the  na- 
tion on  a  French  pattern ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  French 
standards  pervaded  the  life  of  the  City,  and  the  literature 
of  England.  The  literature  most  in  demand  was  drama,  and 
a  host  of  writers  appeared  to  give  the  Court  and  the  City 
what  was  demanded.  Life  —  at  least  that  of  the  theatre- 
going  circles  —  was  on  an  exceedingly  low  moral  plane,  and 
it  was  accurately  reflected  in  Restoration  drama,  especially 
comedy. 

Restoration  Comedy.  —  Of  the  comic  writers  of  this 
period  it  is  difficult  to  speak  too  severely,  and  unnecessary 
here  to  speak  at  length.  They  not  only  made  no  effort  at 
originality  :  they  did  not  even  travel  far  for  their  models  and 
materials.  They  worked  over  the  greatest  of  French  dramas, 
chiefly  the  comedies  of  Moliere,  according  to  French  dramatic 
theory.  They  remade  Shakspere  and  other  Elizabethans 
to  suit  the  taste  of  an  age  not  so  "  barbarous."  Worse, 
however,  than  lack  of  originality,  is  the  unblushing  immoral- 
ity of  Restoration  drama,  which  constantly  pictures  vice 
triumphant,  which  "  laughs  not  merely  indulgently  at  vice, 
but  harshly  at  the  semblance  of  virtue."  ' 

The  Swing  of  the  Pendulum.  —  That  this  standard  was 
allowed  to  remain  for  forty  years  recalls  the  fact  that  a  pendu- 
lum swings  as  far  in  one  direction  as  the  other.  An  enforced 
seriousness,  morality,  restraint,  gave  way  to  a  deliberately 
sought  levity,  immorality,  licence.     If  people  thought  of  sin 

'  Nettleton,  English  Drama  of  the  Restoration,  page  7. 


120  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

at  all,  they  took  the  position  expressed  by  one  of  the  Cavalier 
poets,  that  sin  consists,  not  in  doing  wrong,  but  in  being 
found  out.  Not  that  the  entire  nation  fell  to  this  low  level : 
there  were  many  exceptions.  But  the  upper  class  in  state 
and  society  was  morally  down,  and  this  class  determined  the 
literature  of  the  period. 

Before  studying  the  greatest  writer  of  the  day  it  will  be 
<'  well  to  look  briefly  at  a  work  which  admirably  supplements 
Restoration  comedy  in  picturing  the  life  of  the  time.     This 
work  is  the  Diary  of  Samuel  Pepys.^ 

SAMUEL  PEPYS,   1633-1703 

Life.  —  Pepys  was  born  in  London,  the  son  of  a  tailor. 
He  attended  St.  Paul's  School  in  the  City,  and  Magdalene 
College,  Cambridge,  being  graduated  in  1650.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  without  occupation  or  prospects,  he  married ; 
and  of  his  life  for  the  succeeding  four  or  five  years  we  have 
no  information.  Having,  however,  secured  the  favor  and 
patronage  of  his  distant  kinsman,  Sir  Edward  Montagu, 
an  influential  man  in  the  Restoration,  Pepys  became  in 
1660  Clerk  of  the  Acts  of  the  Navy  Board.  Soon  afterward 
he  became  Secretary  of  the  Admiralty;  and  to  him,  it  is 
said,  much  credit  is  due  for  improvements  in  administration 
of  the  navy. 

The  Diary,  begun  in  1660,  Pepys  was  compelled  to  dis- 
continue in  1669  because  of  the  weakness  of  his  eyes.  He  was 
an  early  member  of  the  Royal  Society  and  became  its  presi- 

*  According  to  H.  B.  Wheatley,  authority  on  Pepys,  the  most  usual 
pronunciation  of  the  name  to-day  is  Peps,  though  most  bearers  of  the 
name  say  Peeps,  and  one  branch  of  the  family  has  said  Pep-pis  for  at 
least  a  hundred  years.  Mr.  Wheatley  thinks  the  pronunciation  of  the 
diarist's  own  day  was  undoubtedly  Peeps.  —  See  Samuel  Pepys  and  the 
World  He  Lived  In,  second  edition,  preface. 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEX      121 

dent  in  1684.  With  the  Revolution  of  1688  he  lost  his  posi- 
tion in  the  Admiralty,  and  spent  his  last  fifteen  years  in  a 
suburb  of  London,  maintaining  acquaintance  and  corre- 
spondence with  prominent  men,  including  Christopher  Wren 
the  architect,  and  Isaac 
Newton  the  philosopher 
and  scientist.  He  also  in 
these  last  years  kept  up  an 
active  interest  in  many 
public  affairs. 

Character  Revealed  in 
the  Diary.  — The  character 
of  the  author,  revealed  on 
every  page  —  almost  in 
every  entry — of  the  Diary, 
is  most  interesting.  The 
manuscript  is  in  short- 
hand ;  and  that  it  was  writ- 

Pepys. 
ten  with  not  the  remotest 

thought  of  publication,  is  clear.  He  shows  the  weaknesses 
and  vices  of  the  day  :  avarice,  with  no  great  scruples  in  grati- 
fying it ;  love  of  amusement,  satisfied  by  the  typical  amuse- 
ments of  the  Restoration ;  love  of  wine,  indulgence  in  which 
caused  him  inconvenience,  and  therefore,  pain ;  vanity, 
which  led  him,  while  complaining  of  even  the  small  expendi- 
tures of  his  wife,  to  lay  out  great  sums  for  attire  for  himself. 
"  Up,  and  make  myself  as  fine  as  I  could,  with  the  linen 
stockings  on  and  wide  canons  [i.e.,  ornamental  rolls  around 
the  bottom  of  his  trousers]  that  I  bought  the  other  day  at 
Hague."  (May  24,  1660.)  The  list  of  plays  which  he  saw, 
many  of  them  over  and  over  again,  numbers  nearly  one 
hundred  and  fifty,  and  there  were  frequent  merry-makings. 


122 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


not  all  of  unquestionable  character,  at  his  own  and  friends' 
houses,  and  at  taverns  of  all  kinds. 

A  Business  Man.  —  On  the  other  hand,  he  certainly  de- 
voted himself  faithfully  to  the  business  of  his  office,  with 
benefit  to  the  service,  as  has  been  mentioned.  For  many 
a  day  the  entry  is  as  brief  as  the  following :  "At  the  office 
all  the  morning,  and  merry  at  noon,  at  dinner;  and  after 
dinner  to  the  office,  where  all  the  afternoon,  doing  much 
business,  late."     (Nov.  15,  1668.)     That  he  earnestly  wished 


Facsimile  of  Pepys's  Signature. 
(British  Museum.) 

to  be  freed  from  his  bad  habits  is  evidenced  by  the  number 
of  times  he  "  prays  "  that  he  may  overcome  them.  Some- 
times in  a  sentence  he  seems  rightly  to  estimate  a  business 
acquaintance :  "  I  thought  it  dangerous  to  be  free  with  him, 
for  I  do  not  think  he  can  keep  counsel ;  because  he  blabs 
to  me  of  what  hath  passed  between  other  people  and  him." 
(Aug.  13,  1666.) 

Life  of  the  Time  Pictured.  —  The  satisfaction  of  the  people 
with  the  new  government  appears  from  two  passages  for 
1660.  On  March  6  he  writes :  "  Everybody  now  drinks 
the  King's  health  without  any  fear,  whereas  before  it  was 
very  private  {i.e.,  secretly)  that  a  man  dare  do  it ;  "   and  on 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEN      123 

October  13 :  "I  went  out  to  Charing  Cross,  to  see  Major- 
General  Harrison  ^  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.  .  .  .  He 
was  presently  cut  down,  and  his  head  and  heart  shown  to 
the  people,  at  which  time  there  were  great  shouts  of  joy." 
The  most  famous  long  entry  is  that  describing  the  great 
fire  of  1666,  containing  much  of  interest  regarding  phases  of 
Restoration  London  which  a  regular  historian  would  have 
ignored. 

The  Supreme  Diarist.  —  As  Boswell  (see  page  184)  is 
the  world's  greatest  biographer,  Samuel  Pepys  is  its  greatest 
diarist.  His  Diary,  says  Richard  Garnett,  is  "  a  model  to 
which  not  only  no  one  ever  will  attain,  but  to  which  no  one 
will  endeavor  to  attain."  As  indicating  the  difficulty  of 
accomplishing  what  Pepys  accomplished  Garnett  adds : 
"  He  is  as  supreme  in  his  own  sphere  as  jSIilton  in  his ;  and 
another  Milton  is  more  likely  to  appear  than  another  Pepys." 

JOHN   DRYDEN,    1631-1700 

The  dominant  literary  figure  of  the  age  was  John  Dry- 
den,  who  possessed  skill  much  above  the  average  writer, 
but  lacked  the  force  of  character  necessary  to  raise  the  tone 
of  the  literature.  His  life  of  sixty-nine  years  stretched  over 
the  period  of  the  Commonwealth  and  those  of  four  sovereigns 
—  the  two  Charleses,  James  II,  and  William  and  Mary. 
His  literary  life,  which  began  at  the  death  of  Cromwell, 
shows  a  series  of  changes  in  standards  and  theories  of  writing ; 
and  his  writings  show  great  changes  in  thought,  particularly 
religious  thought.  Regarding  all  these  changes  a  controversy 
has  lasted  to  the  present  day;  and  scholars  are  not  yet 
agreed  whether  greater  praise  or  blame  is  due  him. 

•  A  Puritan  officer  who  signed  Charles  the  First's  death  warrant. 


124 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


Life  to  the  End  of  the  Commonwealth.  —  Dryden  was  born 
in  a  Northamptonshire  village  about  eighty  miles  north  of 
London,  August  9,  163L  He  attended  Westminster  School 
under  Doctor  Busby  (who,  it  will  be  remembered,  once 
whipped   Sir   Roger   de   Coverley's   grandfather  —  see    The 

Spectator,  No.  329),  and 

Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. Though  he  did 
not  obtain  a  fellow- 
ship, he  remained  in 
Cambridge  for  three 
years  after  his  gradua- 
tion in  1654,  apparently 
engaged  in  study.  On 
the  death  of  his  father 
he  inherited  property 
enough  to  support 
him;  and  from  Cam- 
bridge he  moved  to 
London,  which  from 
that  time  was  his  res- 
idence. 

First  Poems.  —  At 
the  death  of  Cromwell 
Dryden  published  his 
first  poem  —  Heroic 
Stanzas,  Consecrated  to  the  Memory  of  His  Highness,  Oliver, 
Late  Lord  Protector  of  this  Commonwealth.  The  poet's  an- 
cestry was  Puritan  in  sympathy,  and  this  poem  is  quite 
orthodox,  sajdng: 

"His  grandeur  he  derived  from  Heaven  alone, 
For  he  was  great,  ere  Fortune  made  him  so," 


Dryden. 
After  the  portrait  by  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller. 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION   TO  DRYDEN     125 

The  concluding  stanza  reads : 

"His  ashes  in  a  peaceful  urn  shall  rest ; 

His  name  a  great  example  stands  to  show 
How  strangely  high  endeavors  may  be  blessed 
Where  piety  and  valour  joijQ.tly  go." 

Less  than  two  years  later  appeared  from  the  same  pen 
Astrcea  Redux,  a  Poem  on  the  Happy  Restoraiion  and  Return 
of  His  Sacred  Majesty  Charles  the  Second.  This  is  the  first 
of  Dry  den's  changes  and  the  easiest  to  explain.  In  the 
words  of  Doctor  Johnson  :  "  If  he  changed,  he  changed  with 
the  nation."  Why  and  to  what  extent  the  nation  changed, 
has  been  stated  above.  In  passing  we  should  note  that 
Astrcea  Redux  is  written  in  heroic  couplets,'  the  measure 
which  Dryden  was  to  fix  as  the  standard  measure  for  Eng- 
lish poetry  for  more  than  a  century. 

First  Plays  and  Essays.  —  In  the  third  year  of  Charles 
II,  Dryden  produced  The  Wild  Gallant  and  The  Rival  Ladies, 
the  first  of  a  long  list  of  plays  of  little  merit  and  of  the  tone 
he  believed  to  be  in  demand  by  Restoration  play-goers. 
Four  years  later  came  a  work  of  dramatic  criticism  of  more 
importance  to  English  literature  than  all  his  plays  —  Essay 
of  Dramatic  Poesy,  in  which  he  argues  for  the  use  of  rhyme 
in  tragedy.  Although  the  subject  of  the  essay  is  of  no  im- 
portance, the  essay  itself  deserves  high  place  as  the  first 
composition  in  what  is  called  modern  prose.  By  this  term  is 
meant  prose  employed   "  as  an  instrument  for  promoting 

*  The  heroic  couplet  consists  of  two  rhymed  lines  of  iambic  pentam- 
eter.    Examples  from  Astrcea  Redux : 

"  How  shall  I  speak  of  that  triimiphant  day, 
When  jrou  renewed  the  expiring  pomp  of  May, 
A  month  that  owns  an  interest  in  your  name  ; 
You  and  the  flowers  are  its  peculiar  claim." 


126 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


'tUn. 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Dryden. 
(British  Museum.) 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEN     127 

social  intercourse  and  refinement "  as  distinguished  from 
that  used  "  for  the  various  purposes  of  instruction."  *  This 
was  followed  by  Defence  of  the  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy, 
and  by  various  other  defences,  prefaces,  and  dedications, 
which   taken    together 

naming 

Father 


justify      our 

Dryden    the    ' 

of      Modem     EngHsh 

Prose." 

Dryden  was  made 
Poet  Laureate  in  1670, 
and  held  the  position 
until  the  Revolution 
(1688).  Eight  years 
later,  in  All  for  Love, 
an  imitation  and  ad- 
aptation of  Shakspere's 
Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
he  abandoned  rhyme 
for  blank  verse  in  trag- 
edy; another  of  his 
changes  of  standard, 
which  he  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  "  defend  "  in  a 
preface. 


The  Medall. 


S AT Y  R  E 


A  G  A  I K  ST 


SEDITION. 


By  the  Authour  of  Mfalm  and  Achitofbtl, 


Pet  Graiura  fo/mlos,  mtiiaque  fei  Elide  Vihtm 
Ibat  mam  j  Di%''Jinf«r^>  fofceial  Honor  a. 


LONDON, 

I'ruital  for  Jacob  Ttnfon  at  chc  JuJge'i  Head  in 
ChaLcery-Uxe,  nai  FUfl-fiTM.    itfSa., 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Dryden's 
The  Medal. 

(New  York  Public  Library.) 


Satirical  Poems.  —  Neither  Dryden's  plays  nor  his  critical 
essays,  however,  could  have  given  him  the  position  he  occu- 
pied in  Restoration  life  and  literature.  That  position  at 
the  top  came  to  him  as  a  result  chiefly  of  another  sort  of  writ- 
ing, begun  when  he  was  fifty  years  old  —  political  satire. 
The  first  of  his  satirical  poems  was  Absaiom  and  Achitophel, 


*  Courthope,  in  Craik's  English  Prose,  III.  139. 


128  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

directed  against  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  who  favored  the 
Protestant  Duke  of  Monmouth  as  Charles's  successor  rather 
than  the  Roman  Cathohc  Duke  of  York  (afterwards  James 
II).  When  Shaftesbury  was  tried  for  high  treason  and 
acquitted,  and  his  friends  had  a  medal  struck  in  commemora- 
tion of  the  event,  Dryden  wrote  another  satire  with  the 
same  aim,  entitled  The  Medal. 

"  Mac  Flecknoe."  —  Among  the  replies  was  one  by 
Thomas  Shadwell,  whose  taking  part  in  the  wit-combat 
would  be  quite  forgotten  but  for  Dryden's  rejoinder  to  it. 
It  may  almost  be  said  that  Shadwell's  very  name  would  be 
forgotten  but  for  Dryden's  Mac  Flecknoe,  a  poem  in  which 
Shadwell  is  made  successor  to  the  throne  of  dulness.  Such 
lines  as  the  following  were  quite  beyond  Shadwell,  and  they 
hit  hard : 

"Shadwell  alone,  of  all  my  •  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 
So  Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  be  vain, 
That  he  till  death  true  dulness  would  maintain ; 
And  in  his  father's  right,  and  realm's  defence, 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  wit,  nor  truce  with  sense." 

Religious  Poems.  —  The  year  of  the  Shadwell  poem  was 
signalized  by  a  venture  of  Dryden's  into  a  field  entirely  new 
to  him  —  religion.  This  venture  was  Religio  Laid  {"  Reli- 
gion of  a  Layman  "),  a  poem  setting  forth  the  fallacy  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  doctrine  of  infallibility.  After  the  acces- 
sion of  James  II  appeared  The  Hind  and  the  Panther,  an 
allegorical  satire  in  verse  proving  the  Roman  Church  to  be 
the  true  and  only  church.     This  was  the  last  of  those  changes 


Flecknoe,  King  of  Nonsense,  is  speaking. 


FROM   THE  RESTORATION  TO   DRYDEN     129 

of  which  mention  was  made  in  our  introductory  paragraph 
on  Dryden ;  and  it  seems  probable  that  he  was  at  heart 
more  a  Catholic  than  anything  else.  In  the  poem  various 
sects  are  represented  by  animals,  from  the  Church  of  Rome 
("  the  milk-white  Hind  ")  and  that  of  England  (the  Panther 
—  "  fairest  creature  of  the  spotted  kind  ")  to  the  Baptist 
("  the  bristled  Boar  ")  and  the  Quaker  (the  Hare  —  that 
"  Professed  neutrality,  but  would  not  swear"). 

Last  Years.  —  With  the  exile  of  James  at  the  Revolution 
and  the  accession  of  the  Protestants  William  and  Mary 
(1688-1689),  Dryden  lost  the  position  of  laureate ;  and  from 
that  time  until  his  death  in  1700  he  suffered  from  physical 
ills  and  from  lack  of  income  to  relieve  them.  What  is  by 
some,  however,  considered  his  best  work  was  written  in  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life :  translations,  including  the  Mnexd 
of  Virgil ;  the  Fabler,  including  translations  from  Ovid  and 
Boccaccio,  and  modernizations  of  Chaucer;  and  the  ode 
called  Alexander's  Feast. 

JOHN  BUNYAN,    1628-1688 

Although  John  Bunyan  was  a  Puritan  of  Puritans,  it  seems 
more  correct  to  assign  him  to  the  Restoration  period  for  two 
reasons.  In  the  first  place  all  of  his  works  that  have  any 
claim  on  our  consideration  were  written  after  1660;  and  in 
the  second,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  his  great  works  would 
ever  have  been  written  had  it  not  been  for  the  religious  perse- 
cution he  suffered  under  Charles's  government. 

Birth  and  Education.  —  Bunyan  was  born  in  Elstow,  Bed- 
fordshire, in  1628,  "  of  a  low  and  inconsiderable  generation," 
as  he  himself  says.  His  father,  Thomas  Bunyan,  who  called 
himself  a  "  brazier,"  was  called  by  the  son's  first  biographer 
a  "  tinker,"  that  is,  "  a  mender  of  pots  and  kettles ;  "    and 


130  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

the  son  followed  the  same  trade.  His  schooling  must  have 
been  very  limited,  but  his  literary  training  was  of  the  best. 
"  The  Bible,"  says  Froude,  "  is  a  literature  in  itself  —  the 
rarest  and  richest  in  all  departments  of  thought  or  imagina- 
tion which  exists ;  "  and  Bunyan  knew  his  Bible.  Foxe's 
Book  of  Martyrs  is  said  to  be  the  only  other  book  with  which 
he  was  at  all  well  acquainted. 

Conversion ;  and  Marriage.  —  According  to  his  own  narra- 
tive after  his  conversion,  he  was  a  very  wicked  youth  and 
young  man,  the  chief  of  sinners ;  but  it  is  now  very  generally 
believed  that  he  exaggerated,  quite  unconsciously,  his  early 
wickedness.  In  the  great  ardor  of  his  changed  life,  very 
slight  lapses  from  propriety  seemed  to  him  the  blackest  of 
crimes  against  his  Maker.  For  three  years  he  served  in 
the  army,  on  the  side  of  Parliament,  as  is  now  established.' 
Shortly  after  his  release  he  married.  His  wife  brought  as 
her  dowry  two  religious  books,  which  he  took  pleasure  in 
reading  with  her,  but  which  had  no  effect  on  his  life.  His 
change  resulted  from  a  new  and  sympathetic  reading  of  the 
Bible ;  he  joined  a  dissenting  sect  in  1653 ;  and  three  years 
later  was  regularly  engaged  in  preaching. 

Works  Written  while  in  Prison.  —  Six  months  after  the 
Restoration  of  Charles  and  of  the  Established  Church,  Bun- 
yan, with  many  other  dissenting  preachers,  was  arrested ; 
and  on  his  refusal  to  discontinue  preaching,  was  imprisoned. 
During  the  twelve  years  of  his  confinement  he  wrote  a  num- 
ber of  books,  including  one  of  "  the  four  outstanding  crea- 
tions of  his  genius "  —  Grace  Abounding  to  the  Chief  of 
Sinners,  his  autobiography.  It  is  in  this  volume  that  he 
charges  himself  with  the  extreme  sinfulness  already  referred 

»  See  Cambridge  History,  VII,  192. 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEN      131 

to.  Released  from  prison  in  1672,  Bunyan  became  pastor 
of  the  Bedford  church;  but  after  a  service  of  only  three 
years  he  was  again  arrested  and  imprisoned.  This  second 
imprisonment  of  six  months  is  for  the  world  the  most  impor- 
tant episode  in  Bunyan's  life ;  for  it  was  then  that  he  wrote 
the  first  part  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

"  The  Pilgrim's  Progress."  —  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  from 
This  World  to  thai  which  is  to  Come  is  "  delivered  under  the 


Jail  on  Bedford  Bridge. 
Here  Bunyan  was  imprisoned  for  years. 

similitude  of  a  dream."  The  author  of  Piers  Plowman, 
it  will  be  recalled  (see  page  22),  lay  down  on  Malvern  Hills 
one  morning,  and  had  a  dream  in  which  appeared  a  "  field 
full  of  folk."  So  Bunyan  says  he  lay  down  in  a  "  den  "  {i.e., 
Bedford  Jail),  and  dreamed.  At  the  end  of  the  story,  he 
"  awoke,  and  behold  it  was  a  dream." 

The  story  is  of  Christian,  who,  reading  in  a  Book  (the 
Bible)  that  his  city  was  to  be  destroyed  by  fire,  set  out  for 
a  place   of  safety.     Evangelist   gives   him   directions ;    his 


132  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

neighbors,  Obstinate  and  Pliable,  follow  him  and  try  to  turn 
him  back.  Christian,  however,  refuses  to  return,  and  after 
a  long  and  toilsome  journey  is  conducted  by  two  Shining 
Ones  into  the  Celestial  City. 

In  striving  to  reach  his  goal  he  has  experienced  many  and 
distressing  hindrances.  Among  them  are  the  Slough  of 
Despond,  into  which  he  falls  ;  the  Hill  of  Difficulty ;  Doubt- 
ing Castle,  the  home  of  Giant  Despair ;  the  Valley  of  Humilia- 
tion, where  he  has  to  fight  the  fiend  ApoUyon ;  the  town  of 
Vanity,  where  he  and  a  companion  named  Faithful  are  tried 
for  disturbing  the  peace  by  talking  against  a  fair  to  be  held 
in  the  town.  He  is  enabled  to  overcome  these  hindrances 
by  the  aid  of  the  shepherds  Knowledge,  Experience,  and  Sin- 
cere, dwellers  in  the  Delectable  Mountains ;  an  Interpreter, 
who  has  a  house  on  the  road ;  the  porter  Watchful,  and  the 
damsels  Prudence,  Piety,  and  Charity,  who  occupy  the 
Palace  Beautiful ;  and  Hopeful,  who  joins  Christian  after 
the  execution  of  Faithful  at  Vanity  Fair,  and  accompanies 
him  to  the  end  of  the  journey. 

The  reception  accorded  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  shown 
by  the  appearance  of  fifty-nine  editions  in  the  hundred  years 
following  its  publication.  Before  1700  it  was  translated  into 
French,  German,  and  Dutch ;  and  at  the  present  time  ver- 
sions exist  in  more  than  one  hundred  languages  and  dialects. 

Later  Works.  —  The  period  between  the  release  from  his 
second  imprisonment  and  his  death  was  a  happy  and  pros- 
perous one  for  Bunyan.  The  second  part  of  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  setting  forth  the  journey  of  Christian's  wife,  Chris- 
tiana, and  their  children,  appeared ;  and  though  unquestion- 
ably inferior  to  the  first  part,  it  met  with  a  most  cordial 
reception.  Two  more  of  his  great  works  were  published  — 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman,  a  reversal  of  Christian's 


FROM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  DRYDEN      133 


journey  and  less  interesting  because  of  the  simple  char- 
acter of  the  central  figure ;  and  The  Holy  War,  an  allegory 
the  idea  of  which  is  plainly  taken  from  Paradise  Lost,  and 
in  which  the  banished  spirits,  led  by  Diabolus  (Satan), 
attack  the  forces  of  Em- 
manuel (Christ),  defend- 
ing the  town  of  Mansoul. 
In  addition  to  attaining 
great  fame  as  a  writer, 
Bunyan  had  now  come 
to  be  recognized  as  a 
great  preacher.  Offers 
of  more  prominent  and 
more  lucrative  positions 
came  to  him,  but  he  de- 
clined to  leave  Bedford 
permanently,  though  he 
made  an  annual  visit  to 
London  and  preached 
to  large  and  enthusiastic 
audiences. 

Death. — He  gave  him- 
self freely  to  humanity, 
and  his  death  resulted 
from  exposure  on  a  journey  that  he  certainly  would  have 
called  one  of  Christian  duty.  The  journey  was  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  between  a  father  and  son,  and  was 
successful.  Riding  aftervv^ard  to  London  in  a  heavy  rain, 
he  caught  cold,  which  developed  into  fever.  In  about  ten 
days  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  London. 

A    Humble    Man.  —  In    view   of   Bunyan's    phenomenal 
success,  especially  with  such  an  unpromising  start  in  life,  no 


Bunyan. 
From  a  portrait  by  Sadler. 


134  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

characteristic  is  more  noteworthy  than  his  humiHty.  A  single 
incident  will  illustrate  this.  A  member  of  his  congregation 
once  complimented  him  on  a  sermon  he  had  preached,  call- 
ing it  a  "  sweet  "  sermon.  The  great  man,  to  whose  imagi- 
nation the  forces  of  evil  were  very  real  and  always  present, 
replied :  "  You  need  not  tell  me  that,  for  the  devil  whis- 
pered it  to  me  before  I  was  well  out  of  the  pulpit." 

A  Noteworthy  Pamphlet. — This  chapter  should  not  end 
without  mention  of  a  publication  that  had  a  great  effect  on 
the  drama  of  this  period,  and  incidentally  upon  the  moral 
tone  of  the  literature  as  a  whole.  This  was  a  pamphlet 
entitled.  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness  of 
the  English  Stage,  by  Jeremy  Collier,  a  dissenting  clergy- 
man. It  appeared  in  1698,  two  years,  that  is,  before  Dry- 
den's  death ;  and  it  was  very  specific  as  to  names  of  both 
authors  and  plays,  Dryden  receiving  a  due  share  of  condem- 
nation. He  differed  from  other  offenders  in  admitting  the 
justice  of  the  charges,  and  making  a  feeble  apology. 

That  such  a  spectacle  as  the  comedy  of  the  Restoration 
must  have  come  to  an  end  in  time  is  doubtless  true ;  but  it 
is  also  true  that  the  reform  was  hastened  by  the  clergyman's 
blast.  While  the  pamphlet  is  an  absolutely  uncritical  per- 
formance, it  appeared  at  a  moment  when  merely  a  vigorous 
statement  of  the  situation  would  contribute  much  toward 
a  removal  of  the  evil. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FROM  THE  DEATH   OF  DRYDEN  TO   THE  PUBLICATION 
OF  THE   "  LYRICAL  BALLADS  "  (1700-1798) 

General  Character  of  Eighteenth-century  Literature.  — 
Despite  repeated  assertions  to  the  contrary,  Matthew 
Arnold's  characterization  of  the  eighteenth  century  as 
"  our  age  of  prose  and  reason  "  remains  the  most  accurate 
brief  characterization  yet  offered.  The  objectors  to  the 
phrase  apparently  labor  under  the  impression  that  the  critic 
was  disparaging  the  age,  overlooking  the  fact  that  he  also 
described  it  as  "  excellent  and  indispensable."  After 
Chaucer,  Shakspere,  and  Milton  (to  name  only  the  greatest 
poets  before  1700)  English  literature  could  well  afford  an 
entire  centm-y  for  perfecting  its  prose. 

An  Age  of  Prose.  —  Even  an  age  of  prose  may  produce 
poets,  and  Arnold  counts  Gray  a  classic  and  Burns  a  poet 
of  great  power.  In  the  opinion  of  most  students  it  requires 
no  indulgence  to  add  the  names  of  Thomson,  Cowper, 
Collins,  and  Goldsmith  to  the  list  of  real  poets.  When  all 
is  said,  however,  the  fact  stands  out  that  not  by  reason  of 
all  six  of  these  names  does  the  eighteenth  century  hold  its 
high  place  in  our  literary  annals.  That  place  is  due  to  a 
number  of  prose  writers  of  the  highest  merit  —  Defoe  and 
Swift,  Addison  and  Steele,  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  Boswell 
and  Burke;    to  the  founders  of  the  noveP  —  Richardson, 

'  The  novelists  are  separated  from  other  prose  writers  because  their 
contribution  is  to  the  establishment  of  a  literary  form  rather  than  "a 
fit  prose"  style. 

135 


136  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne ;  and  to  one  poet  —  Pope  —  who, 
as  we  shall  presently  see,  treated  in  metrical  form  just  the 
sort  of  subjects  treated  by  the  others  in  prose  and  in  a  not 
dissimilar  fashion. 

An  Age  of  Reason.  —  It  was  an  age  of  reason  in  that  the 
appeal  of  its  writers  was  largely  to  the  intellect  and  slightly 
to  the  imagination  or  to  the  emotions.  This  assertion  may 
be  disputed  by  one  who  recalls  that  Gulliver's  Travels, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverlet/  belong  to  the  first 
half  of  the  century.  But  the  De  Coverley  Papers  were 
popular  because  readers  found  in  them  so  much  of  the  life 
of  their  own  day ;  and  Robinson  Crusoe  was  read  not  as  a 
creation  of  the  imagination,  but  as  sober  narrative  of  real 
experiences.  Swift's  object  in  Gulliver's  Travels  was  not  to 
entertain,  but  to  satirize  politics,  religion,  learning,  and  well 
nigh  every  phase  of  life.  Even  the  titles  of  Pope's  poems 
show  lack  of  imagination  and  feeling,  qualities  inseparably 
connected  in  most  minds  with  any  poetry  worthy  the  name. 
He  wrote  an  Essay  on  Criticism,  Essay  on  Man,  Moral 
Essays,  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot  (his  closest  friend).  Epistle 
on  Taste,  Satires  (imitations  of  Horace),  The  Dunciad  (a 
long  series  of  spiteful,  personal  attacks  on  contemporaries). 

Although  some  characteristics  run  through  the  literature 
of  the  entire  century,  certain  differences  between  the  first 
half  of  the  century  and  the  second  half  make  a  subdivision 
desirable.  It  is  convenient  to  name  these  subdivisions  from 
the  men  whose  influence  dominated  each :  the  age  of  Pope 
(to  his  death  in  1744),  and  the  age  of  Johnson. 

The  Age  of  Pope 

The  "Augustan"  Age.  —  The  age  of  Pope  is  sometimes 
called  the  "  Augustan  "  age,  because  of  some  resemblances 


FROM   DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       137 

between  conditions  in  England  at  tlie  time  and  conditions 
in  Rome  under  the  Emperor  Augustus.  "  The  parallel 
between  the  two  eras,"  says  Professor  Sellar/  "  consists  in 
the  relation  which  poets  and  writers  held  to  men  eminent  in 
the  State,  and  also  in  the  finished  execution  and  moderation 
of  tone  common  to  both."  Statesmen  vied  with  each  other 
in  the  encouragement  and  substantial  patronage  of  men  of 


Cobhamo 


o  Epaom 


Map  of  London  and  Vicinity. 

Augustan  writers  were  interested  chiefly  in  city  life.     Places  connected 
with  writers  of  other  periods  may  be  noted. 

letters.     Great  emphasis  was  laid  on  literary  "  finish,"  on 
elegance.     Said  Dryden : 

"Polish,  re  polish,  every  color  lay. 
And  sometimes  add,  but  oftener  take  away." 

Following  Dryden's  example,  the  early   eighteenth-century 
writers   busied   themselves   much   with   theories   of  poetry 


'  The  Roman  Poets  of  the  Augustan  Age:  Virgil,  .3d  ed.,  page  5. 


138  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  were  greatly  influenced  by  the  Latin  writer  Horace. 
"  There  was  never  an  age  in  which  great  writers  trained 
themselves  so  carefully  for  their  office,  strove  so  much  to  con- 
form to  recognized  principles  of  art,  reflected  so  much  on  the 
plan  and  purpose  of  their  compositions,  or  used  more  patient 
industry  in  bringing  their  conceptions  to  maturity."  An  im- 
portant difference  between  the  two  Augustan  ages  is  that  the 
Roman  age  followed  Rome's  greatest  prose  period,  and  was 
almost  wholly  devoted  to  poetry.  The  prose  of  Caesar,  Sal- 
lust,  and  Cicero  preceded  the  poetry  of  Virgil  and  Horace. 

Subject-matter  and  Treatment.  —  On  the  side  of  subject- 
matter  and  treatment  the  literature  of  the  age  of  Pope  is 
very  largely  satiric,  moral,  and  didactic.  Satire  was  its 
heritage  from  Dryden,  and  was  the  form  naturally  favored 
by  men  writing  "  for  the  critics  in  the  coffee-houses,  for  the 
noblemen  from  whom  they  expected  patronage,  and  for  the 
political  party  they  were  pledged  to  support."  Why  an 
age  so  far  from  moral  should  show  partiality  to  moral  treatises 
is  perhaps  not  quite  clear;  but  partial  to  them  it  was. 
Pope's  lines, 

"Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies," 

found  no  exemplification  in  the  author's  life  or  in  the  lives 
of  many  of  his  notable  contemporaries ;  yet  it  is  the  kind  of 
sentiment  applauded  on  all  sides  in  Pope's  day.  His  con- 
temporaries enjoyed  repeating 

"Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan; 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man," 

even  though  the  object  of  most  men's  study  (notably  of 
Pope's)  was  to  find  the  weak  points  in  their  adversaries  with 
a  view  to  verbal  attack. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       139 

Widespread  Writing  in  Verse.  —  Nearly  every  discussion 
of  the  eighteenth  century  undertakes  to  decide  whether 
Pope  and  his  followers  are  or  are  not  poets.  No  such  effort 
will  be  made  here.  The  terms  "  poet  "  and  "  poetry  "  are 
used  with  such  a  variety  of  meanings  that  there  is  no  common 
ground  for  classifying  a  writer  like  Pope.  We  may  avoid 
committing  ourselves  by  saying  that  virtually  every  writer 
of  the  time  did  on  occasion  express  himself  in  verse.  Of  the 
eight  chief  prose  writers  named  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  six  also  wrote  compositions  which  their  contem- 
poraries had  no  hesitancy  in  calling  poems. 

Conclusion.  —  In  concluding  this  general  characterization 
of  the  eighteenth  century  three  points  must  be  mentioned : 

First,  the  average  writer  was  a  better  writer  than  was  the 
average  in  the  preceding  century. 

Second,  there  were  more  writers  above  the  average. 

Third,  no  WTiter  approached  in  greatness  the  three  chief 
figures  of  the  seventeenth  century  —  Shakspere,  Bacon, 
Milton.  As  some  one  has  put  it,  there  are  more  mountains 
in  the  eighteenth-century  literature  than  in  the  seventeenth ; 
but  there  are  none  whose  summits  reach  the  heights  of  the 
earlier  time. 

There  is  no  clearly  logical  order  in  which  to  study  the 
writers  of  the  Augustan  age.  We  shall,  therefore,  make  a 
purely  arbitrary  choice,  beginning  with  Swift  because  his 
Tale  of  a  Tub  (1704)  is  the  first  really  great  book  of  the  cen- 
tury. It  should,  however,  be  kept  in  mind  that  in  the  same 
year  Defoe  began  his  Review,  the  first  of  the  illustrious  list 
of  periodicals ;  and  Addison  wrote  The  Campaign,  a  poem 
celebrating  a  great  victory  in  war  which  gained  for  its 
author  the  first  noteworthy  recognition  of  literature  by 
government. 


140 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


JONATHAN   SWIFT,    1667-1745 

Swift  Not  an  Irishman.  —  Swift  was  born  in  Ireland ; 
grew  up  and  received  his  entire  education  in  Ireland ;  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  seventy-eight  years  in  Ireland;  and 
died  in  Ireland.     Yet  Swift  was  not  an  Irishman.     He  himself 

said  that  his  being  born  in  that 
country  was  "  a  perfect  acci- 
dent ;  "  adding  :  "  I  was  a  year 
old  before  I  left  it,  and  to  my 
sorrow  did  not  die  before  I 
came  back  to  it."  According 
to  Thackeray  ^  (and  the  critics 
unanimously  assent) :  "  Swift's 
heart  was  English  and  in  Eng- 
land, his  habits  English,  his 
logic  eminently  English." 

In  such  a  situation  a  man's 

life  is  not  likely  to  be  happy 

and  Swift's  life  had  very  little 

happiness  in  it.     Continually, 

even  when  enjoying  the  favor  of  the  great,  he  was  at  enmity 

with  the  human  race ;   and  his  fierce  irony  spared  none.     In 

his  own  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Swift,  he  writes  : 

"Yet  malice  never  was  his  aim ; 
He  lashed  the  vice,  but  spared  the  name ; 
No  individuals  could  resent, 
Where  thousands  equally  were  meant." 

This  "  lashing  of  thousands  "  increased  with  his  years.  Of 
one  of  his  later  works  it  has  been  said,  that  in  his  effort  to 
express  his  disgust  with  humanity.  Swift  becomes  himself 
disgusting. 


Jonathan  Swift. 


In  The  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       141 

Life  Up  to  First  Writings.  —  He  was  horn  in  Dublin  in 
1667.  In  consequence  of  the  death  of  his  father  and  the 
financial  disability  of  his  mother,  Swift  was  brought  up  by  a 
wealthy  uncle,  who  sent  him  to  Kilkenny,  one  of  the  best 
preparatory  schools  in  Ireland.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin ;    and   he   was    graduated 


Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
The  famous  Alma  Mater  of  Swift,  Goldsmith,  and  Burke. 


from  there  in  due  time.  Two  years  later  Swift  went  to 
England  and  secured  a  position  as  secretary-companion  to  a 
Sir  William  Temple,  of  Moor  Park,  Surrey,  some  twenty-five 
miles  southwest  of  London.  The  Temple  connection,  though 
far  from  satisfactory  to  the  ambitious  young  man,  he  con- 
tinued until  Sir  William's  death  in  1699.  During  this 
period  and   under  Temple's   influence,   Swift   received   the 


142  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

master's  degree  from  Oxford,  and  was  ordained  into  the 
ministry  of  the  Church  of  England. 

Beginnings  of  Authorship :  (i)  "  The  Battle  of  the  Books." 

—  Swift  began  his  career  as  author  toward  the  close  of  his 
stay  with  Temple.  The  retired  statesman  became  involved 
in  a  controversy  with  the  great  scholar,  Bentley,  as  to  the 
relative  merits  of  ancient  and  modern  writers.  Swift  came 
to  the  assistance  of  his  patron  with  A  Full  and  True  Account 
of  the  Battle  Fought  Last  Friday  between  the  Ancient  and  the 
Modern  Books  in  St.  James's  Library,  generally  known  as 
The  Battle  of  the  Books. 

The  author  had  apparently  little  interest  in  the  con- 
troversy, and  took  the  side  of  the  ancients  merely  because 
Temple  was  on  that  side  and  needed  help.  The  most  enter- 
taining portion  of  the  work  is  the  fable  of  the  spider  and  the 
bee.  In  this  is  championed  Sir  William's  idea  that  the 
moderns  (represented  by  the  spider)  get  their  material  from 
inside  themselves,  whereas  the  ancients  (represented  by  the 
bee)  got  theirs  direct  from  nature. 

(2)  "The  Tale  of  a  Tub."  — About  the  same  time 
(probably  1697)  Swift  wrote  The  Tale  of  a  Tub,  a  satire  on 
religious  dissensions,  in  the  form  of  an  allegory.  Three 
brothers,  Martin,  Peter,  and  Jack  (standing  for  Martin 
Luther  or  the  Established  Church,  the  Apostle  Peter  or  the 
Church  of  Rome,  and  John  Calvin  or  the  Dissenters),  get 
into  a  quarrel  over  the  meaning  of  their  father's  will  (the 
Bible),  in  which  are  "  instructions  in  every  particular  con- 
cerning the  wearing  and  management  "  of  their  coats  (the 
Christian  faith).  Disagreement  as  to  the  interpretation  of 
the  will  leads  to  alterations  of  the  coats  (that  is,  the  addition 
of  various  doctrines),  and  to  the  increase  of  feeling  between 
the  sects.     The  Tale  did  not,  as  the  author  hoped  it  would, 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS     143 

advance  his  fortunes  in  the  Church ;  for  although  he  made 
clear  enough  the  shortcomings  of  Peter  and  Jack,  his  way  of 
looking  at  life  prevented  his  making  clear  the  virtues  of 
Martin,  as  a  clergyman  in  the  Established  Church  was 
naturally  expected  to  do. 

Swift  at  Laracor.  —  For  some  reason  not  quite  apparent 
neither  The  Battle  of  the  Books  nor  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  was 
published  immediately.  Both  appeared  in  ITiM,  when  Swift 
had  returned  to  Ireland  and  begun  the  life  of  a  country 
parson  at  Laracor,  twenty  miles  from  Dublin.  Laracor 
was  nominally  his  home  from  1700  to  1710,  though  he  spent 
much  time  in  London. 

The  "  Joke  "  on  Partridge,  —  During  one  of  these  visits 
to  the  metropolis  Swift  indulged  in  a  typical  piece  of  satire. 
Under  the  name  of  "-Isaac  Bickerstaff  "  he  predicted  that 
one  Partridge,  an  almanac-maker,  himself  given  to  pre- 
dicting, would  die  at  a  definite  hour  on  a  day  some  weeks 
off.  The  day  after  the  date  set,  Bickerstaff  (Swift)  pub- 
lished a  letter  to  a  prominent  person,  stating  that  Partridge 
had  fulfilled  the  prediction.  Partridge  then  published  a 
new  almanac,  saying,  as  Mark  Twain  once  said,  that  the 
report  of  his  death  was  grossly  exaggerated.  Bickerstaff 
replied  that  Partridge's  writing  another  almanac  was  no 
proof  at  all  that  he  was  still  alive,  and  that  he  was,  in  fact, 
unquestionably  dead.  Swift's  (Bickerstaff's)  victim  could 
not  thereafter  get  a  hearing. 

"An  Argument  against  Abolishing  Christianity."  —  The 
same  visit  was  made  notable  by  An  Argument  against  Abolish- 
ing Christianity,  in  which  Swift  assumes  that  the  nation 
has  unanimously  determined  upon  abolishment.  In  a 
perfectly  serious  tone  and  in  a  carefully  constructed  and 


144  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

orderly  essay,  he  sets  forth  many  arguments  against  abolish- 
ment; as,  the  necessity  of  "  a  nominal  religion,"  the  useful- 
ness of  one  day  in  seven  for  various  things  that  would  hinder 
business  on  other  days,  the  value  of  Christianity  for  the  dis- 
play of  the  freethinker's  abilities  in  attacking  it.  The 
satire  is  directed  not  only  at  the  "  heretical  "  thinking  of  the 
day,  but  also  at  the  superficial,  conventional  thinking  of 
the  so-called  "  orthodox." 

Politics;  and  "  The  Examiner."  —  The  decade  of  Swift's 
residence  at  Laracor  was  marked  by  the  rise  of  political 
parties  in  England,  and  the  increase  in  the  power  of  the 
ministry ;  and  Swift  was  seeking  political  favor  to  better  his 
position  in  the  Church.  For  some  years  he  was  a  Whig; 
but  differing  from  the  party  on  a  vital  principle,  he  left  it 
before  it  lost  control  of  government.  When  in  November, 
1710,  the  Tories  gained  control,  it  seemed  that  Swift's  hour 
had  arrived.  The  leaders  were  not  slow  to  enlist  the  aid 
of  his  pen  for  their  cause ;  and  he  wielded  it  vigorously  for 
the  four  years  (to  the  death  of  Queen  Anne)  they  remained 
in  power.  His  most  useful  political  writing  was  in  The 
Examiner,  a  party  journal  edited  by  him  in  1710-1711.  De- 
spite the  fact  that  The  Examiner  was  primarily  a  plea  for 
support  of  the  ministry.  Swift's  numbers  are  not  a  blindly 
partisan  plea.  They  show,  indeed,  in  the  opinion  of  Swift's 
latest  editor  ^  "  a  noble  spirit  of  wide-eyed  patriotism,  and  a 
distinguished  grasp  of  the  meaning  of  national  greatness  and 
national  integrity." 

"  Dean  "  Swift.  —  Always  ambitious.  Swift  had  felt  con- 
fident that  nothing  less  than  a  bishopric  would  be  given  him 
for  his  services  to  the  government ;    but  no  bishopric  was 

1  Temple  Scott. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      145 

forthcoming.  About  a  year  before  the  downfall  of  the  Tories 
the  deanery  of  Saint  Patrick's,  Dublin,  was  tendered  to  him ; 
and  he  accepted  on  the  assumption  that  a  deanery  was  a 
more  comfortable  place  of  abode  than  a  country  parsonage. 
It  is  not  evident  that  Swift  was  especially  successful  or  in 
any  way  notable  in  his  new  position ;   but  some  title,  ap- 


i 

t 

-,-^mA  1 

id 

1^1 

Saint  Patrick's  Cathedral,  Dublin. 


parently,   the   public  thought  due   him,   and   as 
Swift  he  has  been  known  ever  since. 


Dean 


Return  to  Ireland.  —  With  the  change  in  government, 
only  Saint  Patrick's  and  Ireland  had  anything  to  offer 
Swift.  So  to  Ireland  he  returned  in  1714;  and  in  the 
country  of  his  birth  but  not  of  his  home  he  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  It  was  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine  that  he 
published  the  work  by  which  he  is  most  generally  known  — 


146  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Gulliter^s    Travels,  described  above  as  a  sort  of  universal 
satire. 

The  Story  of  "  Gulliver's  Travels."  — This  book  narrates 
the  experiences  in  four  strange  countries  of  Lemuel  Gulliver, 
Englishman,  "  first  a  surgeon,  and  then  a  captain  of  several 
ships,"  who  had  been  "  condemned  by  nature  and  fortune  to 
an  active  and  restless  life."  He  is  shipwrecked  in  Lilliput, 
where  the  inhabitants  measure  by  inches  instead  of  by  feet, 
and  where  all  things  —  buildings,  animals,  etc.  —  are  in 
proportion.  He  is  accidentally  left  on  shore  in  Brobdingnag, 
the  inhabitants  of  which  measure  by  English  feet  as  if  they 
were  inches,  and  all  things,  again,  are  in  proportion.  On  a 
third  voyage,  after  being  captured  by  pirates  and  set  adrift 
in  a  canoe,  he  lands  in  Laputa;  and  on  a  fourth,  he  is  the 
victim  of  a  conspiracy  among  his  men  and  is  landed  in  the 
country  of  the  Houyhnhnms.^  Among  the  inhabitants  of 
the  last  two  countries  are  very  repulsive  beings  called 
Struldbrugs  and  Yahoos ;  and  the  last  two  parts  of  the  book 
are  much  less  attractive  in  every  way  than  the  first  two. 

The  Satire  in  "  Gulliver's  Travels."  —  Though  Swift  made 
Gulliver's  Travels  a  story  interesting  to  both  young  and  old, 
his  object  in  the  volume  was  certainly  not  entertainment. 
According  to  the  author  the  book  is  an  expression  of  his 
hatred  of  mankind.  In  the  "  Voyage  to  Lilliput  "  he  shows 
how  contemptible  war  is  by  showing  these  six-inch  creatures 
at  war.  He  shows  how  insignificant  are  the  causes  of  political 
controversy  by  picturing  the  Lilliputians  as  divided  on  the 
subject  of  breaking  eggs  —  whether  they  should  be  broken 
at  the  big  end  or  the  little  end. 


•  This  name  is,  apparently,  to  be  pronounced  "Whinnems,"  in  imi- 
tation of  the  neighing  of  a  horse. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       147 

In  the  "  Voyage  to  Brohdingnag  "  Gulliver  (typifying,  of 
course,  humanity)  excites  the  profound  contempt  of  the  king 
—  "  The  bulk  of  your  natives,"  says  he,  "  appear  to  me  to  be 
the  most  pernicious  race  of  little  odious  vermin  that  Nature 
ever  suflFered  to  crawl  upon  the  face  of  the  earth."  The 
king's  dwarf,  says  Gulliver,  was  "  of  the  lowest  stature  that 
was  ever  in  that  country  (for  I  verily  think  he  was  not  full 
thirty  feet  high)."  How  insignificant  and  contemptible 
must  man  be  if  there  are  found  in  the  world  such  powerful 
beings  as  the  Brobdingnagians,  and  such  finely-developed 
beings  as  the  Lilliputians ! 

Writings  on  Ireland :  "  Drapier's  Letters."  —  Of  the  ten 
other  works  written  after  his  appointment  to  Saint  Patrick's 
only  two  need  be  mentioned  here,  both  concerned  with  the 
misgovernment,  ignorance,  and  poverty  of  Ireland.  The 
first  is  the  Drapier's  Letters,  essays  pretending  to  be  addressed 
by  a  tradesman  to  the  "  tradesmen,  shopkeepers,  farmers, 
and  country-people  in  general,"  urging  them  to  declare  their 
virtual  independence  of  England  by  refusing  a  debased 
currency  which  the  mother  country  was  trying  to  force  upon 
them. 

"A  Modest  Proposal."  —  The  other  work  in  behalf  of 
Ireland,  showing  probably  the  utmost  extreme  to  which 
satire  can  go,  is  called :  A  Modest  Proposal  for  Preventing 
the  Children  of  Poor  People  in  Ireland  from  being  a  Burden 
to  their  Parents  or  Country,  and  for  Making  Them  Beneficial 
to  the  Public.  This  proposal,  "  humbly  "  set  forth  in  an 
absolutely  cool  and  serious  manner,  is  that  the  superfluous 
children  be  used  as  food.  "  It  is  not  improbable,"  says  the 
Dean,  "  that  some  scrupulous  people  might  be  apt  to  censure 
such  a  practice  as  a  little  bordering  on  cruelty."  This  kind  of 
food  "  will  be  somewhat  dear,"  he  admits ;   but  for  this  very 


148  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

reason  it  will  be  "  very  proper  for  landlords,  who,  as  they 
have  already  devoured  most  of  the  parents,  seem  to  have  the 
best  title  to  the  children."  The  only  objection  he  can  think 
of  to  his  proposal  is,  "  that  the  number  of  people  will  be 
thereby  much  lessened  in  the  kingdom,"  and  this,  he  freely 
owns,  "  was  one  principal  design  in  oflFering  it  to  the 
world."  Extreme  satire,  irony,  this  is,  but  it  is  not  truly 
harsh  or  savage :   it  merely  shows  in  what  the  author  con- 


Facsimile  of  Manuscript  of  Swift. 
(British  Museum.) 

siders  the  most  effective  way  the  utter  helplessness  of  the 
Irish  people. 

Insanity.  —  About  the  time  when  Swift  wrote  The  Modest 
Proposal  a  great  sorrow  came  into  his  life  —  the  death  of 
Esther  Johnson,  from  which  he  never  recovered.  He  fell 
into  a  state  of  melancholy,  which  soon  developed  into 
insanity ;  and  this  in  the  last  few  years  of  his  life  took  a 
violent  form.  His  estate,  valued  at  about  £12,000  (equivalent 
to  perhaps  $500,000  to-day),  he  left  to  establish  a  hospital 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       149 

for  the  insane ;  or,  as  he  put  it  in  the  Verses  on  the  Death  of 
Dr.  Stoift,  already  mentioned : 

"He  gave  the  little  wealth  he  had 
To  build  a  house  for  fools  and  mad; 
And  showed  by  one  satiric  touch 
No  nation  needed  it  so  much." 

Swift's  Relations  with  Women.  —  One  other .  phase  of 
Swift's  life  must  be  touched  upon,  though  briefly ;  viz., 
his  relations  with  women.  Amid  a  great  deal  of  speculation, 
most  of  which  is  quite  without  interest  or  value,  a  few  facts 
stand  out.  The  names  of  three  women  figure  prominently 
in  Swift's  biography  —  Miss  Waring,  or  "  Varina,"  sister  of  a 
college  friend ;  Esther  Johnson,  or  "  Stella,"  a  dependent  of 
Sir  William  Temple ;  and  Hester  Vanhomrigh,  or  "  Vanessa," 
daughter  of  a  rich  neighbor  of  Swift's  when  he  lived  in  London 
and  wrote  essays  for  the  Tory  ministry. 

"  Varina  "  and  "  Vanessa."  —  The  last-named,  who  was 
thirty  years  younger  than  Swift,  conceived  an  extreme  passion 
for  him ;  and  pursued  him  both  by  letter  and  in  person  for 
some  fifteen  years.  It  does  not  appear  to  the  present  writer 
that  Swift  seriously  cared  for  her,  or  ever  really  encouraged 
her  attentions.  Varina,  it  appears,  he  sincerely  admired ; 
and  he  would  have  married  her,  despite  her  ill-health  and  his 
poor  financial  situation.  At  the  time,  however,  she  thought 
these  drawbacks  too  great ;  and  when,  several  years  later, 
she  changed  her  mind.  Swift  had  changed  his  also. 

"  Stella."  —  Between  Swift  and  Stella  there  existed, 
without  doubt,  a  strong  attachment.  There  is  a  story  to  the 
effect  that  Stella,  in  a  letter  to  Vanessa,  admitted  her  secret 
marriage  to  Swift.  There  is  another  story  to  the  effect 
that  Swift  never  saw  Stella  except  in  the  presence  of  a  third 


150  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

person.     Either  or  both  may  be  true,  but  neither  story  rests 
on  unquestionable  evidence. 

Swift's  Personality.  —  The  great  Dean  does  not  appear 
as  an  attractive*  person.  Addison,  it  is  true,  described  him 
as  "  the  most  agreeable  companion,  the  truest  friend ;  " 
and  the  friendship  of  the  two  men  survived  years  of  political 
controversy  when  they  led  on  opposite  sides.  Other  men  not 
easy  to  be  friends  with  —  Alexander  Pope,  for  instance  — 
retained  and  valued  Swift's  friendship;  but  few  could  long 
tolerate  his  ironical  tongue  and  his  imperious  temper.  When 
Thackeray  asks,  "  Would  you  have  liked  to  be  a  friend  of 
the  great  Dean  ?  "  most  of  us  are  forced  to  answer,  as  the 
great  novelist  implies  that  he  himself  would,  in  the  negative. 

Swift's  Literary  Art.  —  Of  the  Dean's  intellect,  of  his 
literary  powers  —  the  extent  of  his  vocabulary,  the  clear- 
ness and  simplicity  of  his  sentences,  the  logical  structure  of 
his  essays  —  there  can  be  only  one  opinion.  If  he  does  not 
occupy  a  pinnacle  alone  among  the  prose-writers  of  his  day, 
there  is  not  more  than  one  who  can  dispute  his  preeminence. 
Even  the  reader  who  dislikes  his  irony,  his  bitterness,  his 
hatred  of  mankind,  must  rise  from  the  reading  of  Swift 
feeling  that  here  indeed  is  a  master  of  style.  Quotations 
in  brief  can  show  little;  but  wherever  one  dips  into  his 
pages,  one  finds  literary  art  in  its  finest  form,  and  in  a  form 
admirable  as  a  model. 

DANIEL   DEFOE,    1659-1731 

Defoe  a  Newspaper  Man.  —  Defoe  was  the  first  newspaper 
man  to  attain  a  position  in  literature.  By  this  is  not  meant 
that  he  was  connected  with  a  newspaper  —  there  were  no 
newspapers  for  him   to  be  connected  with,   but  that  his 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       151 


writings  are  essentially  the  work  of  a  skilful  reporter  with 
a  knack  for  polishing  up  occurrences  of  the  day.  The 
Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  The  Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  all,  in  fact,  of  what  may  be  called  his 
major  works,  were  based  on  real  events,  and  were  accepted 
as  true  accounts  by  the  reading  public  of  his  day.  Besides 
these  Uterary  ventures  with 
journalistic  flavor,  Defoe 
wrote  the  entire  contents 
for  several  years  of  the  first 
newspaper.  The  Review,  and 
a  large  portion  of  several 
other  periodicals.  A  third 
field  in  which  he  produced 
a  great  number  of  works  is 
that  of  pamphleteering. 

Early  Years.  —  The  sub- 
ject of  this  sketch  was  born 
Foe,  and  did  not  until  late 
in  life  adopt  the  prefix  now 
always  used.  His  father, 
James  Foe,  was  a  butcher 
and  a  Nonconformist,  two  facts  constituting  serious  handi- 
caps to  the  son's  success  in  any  public  occupation.  Both 
social  position  and  regularity  in  religion  were  highly  desirable 
for  advancement  in  the  England  of  William  and  Mary  and 
of  Anne.  James  Foe  planned  to  put  his  son  into  the  min- 
istry; but  the  son,  not  being  interested  in  the  plan,  left 
school  at  the  age  of  seventeen  and  went  into  business. 

Government  Reward  for  Services.  —  His  interest  in  poli- 
tics and  his  skill  in  writing  led  to  a  neglect  of  his  business, 
and  to  failure  for  a  large  amount  in  1692.     Ranging  himself 


Daniel  Defoe. 


162  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

on  the  side  "of  King  William,  Defoe  wrote  in  support  of  that 
monarch's  right  to  the  throne  a  number  of  pamphlets,  and 
one  composition  in  verse.  The  True-born  Englishman.  The 
writer's  services  were  recognized  by  an  appointment  under 
the  government ;  and  he  seems  to  have  been  in  good  financial 
circumstances  until  the  death  of  William  in  1702,  and  the 
accession  of  Anne  and  the  choice  of  a  Tory  ministry. 

A  Famous  Pamphlet.  —  In  this  year  Defoe  published  one 
of  his  most  famous  pamphlets,  The  Shortest  Way  with  the 
Dissenters,  which  pretended  to  take  the  position  of  the 
extreme  Tories  and  High-Churchmen,  but  was  meant  to 
arouse  opposition  to  these  by  exaggeration  of  their  opinions. 
The  author  pretended  to  advocate  "  rooting  out "  the 
Dissenters,  and  treating  their  ministers  as  if  guilty  of  a 
capital  offence.  Defoe,  taken  seriously  at  first,  was  con- 
demned by  Dissenters,  and  approved  by  not  a  few  Tories. 
When  the  pamphlet  was  rightly  understood,  the  leaders  of 
the  Dissenters  were  beyond  pacifying,  and  the  Tories  were 
furious.  The  government  felt  it  necessary  to  punish  Defoe 
severely,  and  he  was  fined,  sentenced  to  stand  in  the  pillory, 
and  to  be  imprisoned  during  the  Queen's  pleasure.  His  ex- 
posure in  the  pillory  was  anything  but  a  punishment;  for 
the  rank  and  file  of  the  people  liked  him  for  his  verses 
(especially  The  True-born  Englishman),  and  admired  him  for 
his  defiance  of  the  government. 

In  Prison.  —  "  The  Review."  —  Defoe's  prison  term  of 
something  more  than  a  year  was  scarcely  more  of  a  punish- 
ment than  was  his  exposure  in  the  pillory.  He  had  much 
liberty;  he  used  it  largely  in  writing;  and  the  authorities 
saw  fit  not  to  prevent  him  from  publishing.  The  Review 
was  begun  during  this  time ;  and  the  freedom  of  his  mind  is 
well  shown  by  the  range  of  subjects  in  the  periodical  — 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       153 

"  from  piracy  and  highway  robberies  to  suicide  and  the 
divinity  of  Christ." 

A  Spy.  —  The  release  from  prison  came  directly  from  the 
government,  which   desired  Defoe's   aid.     The   manner   in 


Defoe  in  the  Pii.L<OBY.  ^ 
From  an  old  print. 

which  he  rendered  this  aid  laid  him  liable  to  misunderstand- 
ing at  the  time,  and  has  proved  a  stumbling-block  to  friendly 
biographers  since.  However  much  we  may  be  disposed  to 
give  a  favorable  name  to  his  position,  we  are  forced  at  last 
to  admit  that  he  was  a  spy.  Such  service  may  be  at  times 
indispensable  and  even  patriotic ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that 
Defoe  was  always  actuated  by  high  motives. 


154 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


THE 


Publication  of  "Robinson  CiTusoe."  —  Defoe  found  him. 
self  almost  as  late  in  life  as  did  Swift.  Defoe  the  journalist, 
the  pamphleteer,  the  poet  of  the  populace,  would  call  forth 

small  space  in  the  his- 
tory of  English  litera- 
ture. In  1719,  how- 
ever, at  the  age  of 
sixty,  he  published  The 
Life  and  Adventures 
of  Robinson  Crusoe  of 
York,  Mariner,  by 
which  he  may  be  said 
to  have  founded  the 
modern  novel,  and 
thereby  secured  for 
himself  an  illustrious 
place  in  not  only  Eng- 
land's, but  the  world's, 
literature. 


L    I    F   E 

AND 

Strange  Surprizing 

ADVENTURES 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE, 

Of  TORK,  Mariner: 

Wlio  lived  Eight  and  Twenty  Years, 
all  alonc'in  an  un-mbabited  Iflan'd  on  the 
Cojft  of  Amjkjca,  near  th«  Mouth  of 
the Greit  River  of  Oroonohuei 

Hivmg  betncill  on  Shore  by  Shipwreck,  where- 

in  ill  tht  Men  periOicd  but  himfelt 

WITH 

Ah  Account  how  he  wi<  at  laft  is  Anngtly  dtU- 

ver'a  b)PVRAT£S. 


»'/  i/.fn  h  Himftlf. 


LONDON: 
Pcintcd  for  W.  T  A  T  t  OR  at  the  Shf  in Puer-Nc/ln 
R^.    MDCCXIX. 


Secret  of  Its  Power. 
—  It  would  be  un- 
reasonable to  give  a 
summary  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  The  story  of 
the  English  sailor  who, 
wrecked  and  ca^t 
ashore  on  a  desert 
island,  makes  for  him- 
self all  the  necessaries  of  life  and  lives  in  reasonable  con- 
tentment for  about  thirty  years,  has  been  a  universal 
favorite  for  two  centuries.  In  the  preface  we  learn 
that   "the  Editor  believes  the  thing  to  be  a  just  history 


Facsimile  Title-page  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  First  Edition,  1719. 

(Widener    Memorial    Library,    Harvard 
University.) 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       155 

of  fact ; "    and   as   such   it   has    been   read   by   countless 
thousands. 

That  a  man  should  have  had  such  an  experience  would 
doubtless  have  seemed  quite  improbable  to  Defoe's  con- 
temporaries, or  even  to  the  young  folks  since,  who  accept  it 
on  the  theory  that  "  faith  is  believing  things  you  know  aren't 
so."  But  when  the  adventures  are  narrated  by  a  definite 
person,  who  had  a  definite  life-history,  and  who  narrates 
the  adventures  as  having  happened  to  him,  the  result  is 
much  more  convincing.  It  is  to  the  perfect  simplicity, 
naturalness,  and  straightforwardness  of  the  narrative  that 
Robinson  Crusoe  owes  its  lasting  power. 

Other  Stories  by  Defoe.  —  Defoe  followed  Robinson 
Crusoe  with  other  "  adventure  "  stories  —  Moll  Flanders, 
Colonel  Jack,  Captain  Singleton.  These  deal  with  characters 
from  the  lower  ranks  of  society,  thieves,  pirates,  and  such; 
and  while  no  one  rises  to  the  level  of  Robinson  Crusoe  in 
interest  or  art,  all  have  in  some  degree  the  same  char- 
acteristics that  have  given  this  book  so  long  a  life. 

Last  Years.  —  For  some  years  following  the  publication  of 
his  masterpiece,  during  which  he  wrote  many  works  of  many 
kinds  besides  the  stories  named  above,  Defoe  seems  to  have 
been  highly  prosperous.  About  1726  his  fortune  appears  to 
have  changed ;  and  though  the  circumstances  of  his  remain- 
ing five  years  and  of  his  death  are  rather  obscure,  he  certainly 
did  not  die  in  physical  or  mental  comfort.  He  continued 
writing,  however^  almost  to  the  end ;  and  the  complete  list 
of  his  works  numbers  over  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

RICHARD  STEELE,   1672-1729;   JOSEPH  ADDISON.  1672-1719 

A  Question  of  Precedence  ?  —  The  names  of  two  writers 
of  the  Augustan   age  invariably  come  together  in  one's 


156  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

mind  —  Richard  Steele  and  Joseph  Addison.  To  the  second 
is  all  but  universally  assigned  the  higher  place  in  our  litera- 
ture ;  yet  without  the  incentive  supplied  by  Steele,  Addison 
would  not  have  been  sure  of  a  place  among  writers  of  the 
first  rank.  The  fame  of  both  rests  on  their  productions  in 
the  field  of  the  periodical  essay ;  more  specifically,  of  the 
character-essay.  Now  their  first  venture  in  this  line.  The 
Toiler,  was  conceived  and  carried  out  by  Steele,  Addison 
contributing  a  number  of  essays  at  Steele's  request;  and 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  the  lovable  old  knight  so  closely 
associated  with  Addison's  name,  originated  in  Steele's  brain. 

Perhaps  it  is  idle  to  call  either  superior  to  the  other.  In 
Aaew,  however,  of  the  fact  that  from  Macaulay's  time  to  the 
present  Addison  has  generally  been  magnified  at  the  expense 
of  Steele,  the  credit  due  to  the  latter's  invention  should  be 
recorded.  Says  one  great  voice  in  dissent  from  the  chorus : 
"  While  Steele  might  under  very  inferior  conditions  have 
produced  the  Toiler  and  Spectaior  without  Addison,  it  is 
highly  improbable  that  Addison,  as  an  essayist,  would  have 
existed  without  Steele."  ^ 

Although  it  is  well-nigh  impossible  to  consider  the  work 
of  these  two  apart,  it  is  possible  and  desirable  to  record 
separately  the  chief  events  of  their  lives.  Each  will,  of 
course,  at  times  invade  the  other's  narrative. 

Ireland,  London,  Oxford,  the  Army.  —  Steele  was  Addison's 
elder  by  three  months.  He  was  born  in  Dublin,  and  certainly 
inherited  more  personal  qualities  from  his  Irish  mother  than 
from  his  English  father.  The  first  really  important  expe- 
rience of  his  life  was  his  entrance  at  the  Charterhouse  School, 
London,  at  the  age  of  twelve ;  for  it  was  there  that  two  years 
later  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Addison.     P'rom  Charter- 

1  Denois,  The  Age  of  Pope,  page  125. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      .157 


house,  Steele  went  to  Merton  College,  Oxford ;  and  though 
he  remained  four  years,  he  was  not  graduated.  The  call  of 
the  war  with  France  was  too  strong ;  and  instead  of  taking  a 
degree  at  Oxford,  he  enlisted  in  the  life-guards.  A  few  years 
later  a  commission  came  to  him ;  and  he  was  always  there- 
after referred  to  as  "  Captain  Dick." 

Beginning    of   the    Periodical   Essay.  —  After   writing   a 
religious  work  called  The  Christian  Hero,  which  gave  him  a 


'""rii  '  "..'  'IT'  -T"-  -"^J^*.  ■■^-  •■"•  •"?!'        •'■.-««■       '■■ — 


The  Chakteuhouse  School. 

reputation  for  piety  neither  desired  nor  deserved,  he  wrote  a 
number  of  plays.  In  1701  he  began  his  career  in  the  line  of 
work  which  was  to  make  him  famous  —  journalism,  becom- 
ing editor  of  The  Gazette.  Seeing  possibilities  in  periodical 
writing,  but  finding  government  control  irksome,  he  started 
The  Tatler  in  1709.  Addison  contributed  forty-two  of  the 
271  numbers  of  this  journal,  which  appeared  three  times  a 
week  for  nearly  two  years.  Two  months  after  the  dis- 
continuance of  The  Tatler,  The  Spectator  appeared  under  the 


168 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


same  editors,  and  was  published  daily  until  December  6, 
1712.  In  this  second  venture  Addison  took  a  larger  hand, 
contributing  274  papers  to  Steele's  236;  and  though  the 
idea  was  again  Steele's,  The  Spectator  is  generally  said  to 
show  the  ascendancy  of  Addison. 

In  1713  Steele  was  elected  to  Parliament,  and  in  the 
following  year  was  expelled  for  favoring  the  succession  of 

the  House  of  Hanover.     On 

the  accession  of  George  I 
Steele  was  reelected  to  Par- 
liament, received  a  lucra- 
tive appointment,  and  was 
knighted. 


Steele. 


The  Quarrel  with  Addi- 
son. —  The  most  unfortu- 
nate event  of  Steele's  life 
took  place  in  1719,  when  he 
and  Addison  became  involved 
on  opposite  sides  in  a  po- 
litical controversy.  Sharp 
words  were  used  by  both; 
and  when  Addison  died  a  few 
months  afterward  no  reconciliation  had  occurred.  The  es- 
trangement led  Dr.  Johnson  to  moralize  in  these  words : 
"  Every  reader  surely  must  regret  that  these  two  illus- 
trious friends,  after  so  many  years  passed  in  confidence 
and  endearment,  in  unity  of  interest,  conformity  of  opin- 
ion, and  fellowship  of  study,  should  finally  pari  in  acri- 
monious opposition.  .  .  .  Why  could  not  faction  find 
other  advocates?  but  among  the  uncertainties  of  the 
human  state,  we  are  doomed  to  number  the  instability  of 
friendship." 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       159 

Extravagant,  but  Attractive.  —  Steele  was  twice  married. 
His  first  wife,  who  lived  something  more  than  a  year,  seems 
to  have  counted  for  little  in  his  life  beyond  the  help  afforded 
by  her  small  fortune.  His  second  wife,  the  "  Pnie "  of 
some  remarkable  letters,  he  apparently  loved  in  a  warm, 
impulsive  Irish  fashion.  She,  like  her  predecessor,  brought 
Captain  Dick  —  that  is.  Sir  Richard  —  a  fortune.  He, 
however,  was  so  good  a  spender  and  kept  up  so  elegant  an 
establishment  that  even  two  fortunes  and  the  salaries  of  two 
good  positions  could  not  pay  the  bills.  Even  if  we  had  no 
evidence  beyond  Steele's  letters  to  his  wife,  affectionate 
though  they  are,  we  should  be  forced  to  conclude  that  her 
ten  years  of  married  life  were  not  altogether  happy  and  un- 
ruffled. He  was  a  far  less  "  prudent "  man  than  his  friend 
Addison;  but  all  the  evidence  indicates  that  he  was  an 
exceedingly  lovable  one. 

Thackeray's  Tribute.  —  Among  many  for  whom  his 
attractive  personahty  has  a  special  appeal  is  Thackeray, 
who  celebrates  his  virtues  in  his  novel  Henry  Esmond,  and 
in  one  of  his  lectures  on  The  English  Humorists.  Says 
Thackeray :  "  I  own  to  hking  Dick  Steele  the  man,  and  Dick 
Steele  the  author,  much  better  than  much  better  men  and 
much  better  authors." 

Steele  outlived  Addison  ten  years.  He  died  in  Wales, 
whither  he  had  gone,  say  many,  to  escape  importunate 
creditors.  Others  more  charitable  believe  it  was  to  escape 
the  overwhelming  expense  of  his  London  home,  and  with 
the  money  thus  saved,  to  pay  his  creditors. 

EUs  Father's  Son.  —  Addison  was  bom  in  a  small  town  in 
Wiltshire  (southern  England),  the  eldest  son  of  the  Royalist 
rector  of  the  place.     If  Steele's  personality  seems  chiefly  due 


160 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


to  his  mother,  Addison's  seems  equally  due  to  his  learned, 
highly-respected,  self-sufficient,  literary  father.  What  is 
generally  regarded  as  nearly  a  portrait  of  himself  is  found  in 
number  one  of  The  Spectator,  in  which  "  The  Spectator  in- 
troduces himself." 


"Addison's  Walk." 
In  Magdalen  College  Grounds. 

School  and  College.  —  Addison  first  attended  schools 
near  home ;  then  in  Salisbury,  where  his  father  had  received 
an  appointment  in  the  cathedral ;  then  in  Lichfield,  where  his 
father  had  been  made  dean.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he 
entered  Charterhouse,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  Queen's 
College,  Oxford.  His  work  at  Queen's  brought  him  a 
scholarship  at  Magdalen,  the  college  from  which  he  was 


FROM   DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       161 

graduated  Master  of  Arts  in  1693,  and  with  which  his  name 
is  inseparably  connected.  A  beautiful  shaded  lane  along 
the  Cherwell,  said  to  have  been  his  favorite  haunt,  is  now 
called  "  Addison's  Walk."  Elected  a  Fellow  of  Magdalen 
some  years  after  graduation,  he  held  the  title  for  about  fifteen 
years. 

A  Travelling  Fellowship  and  Its  Outcome.  —  Attracted  by 
Addison's  possibilities  in  the  field  of  politics,  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  in  1699  presented  the  young  man  with  a 
munificent  travelling  fellowship.  He  spent  four  years  on 
the  Continent;  and  soon  after  his  return  wrote  a  poem 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  ministry,  doubtless  demonstrated 
the  wisdom  of  the  investment.  This  poem  was  The  Cam- 
paign, celebrating  Marlborough's  victory  at  Blenheim,  and 
containing  one  notable  passage  beginning : 

"  'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul  was  proved." 

It  brought  the  author  some  fame,  and  a  comfortable,  position 
under  the  government ;   but  it  did  not  prove  Addison  a  poet. 

Hymns  and  Plays.  —  His  connection  with  The  Taller  and 
The  Spectator,  and  the  consequent  discovery  of  his  power  as 
an  essayist,  have  been  recorded.  Besides  his  contributions 
to  these  and  to  several  other  journals,  Addison  wrote  a 
number  of  hymns  and  some  plays.  Although  we  must  deny 
him  even  much  skill  as  a  versifier,  the  hymn, 

"  The  spacious  firmament  on  high,", 

deserves  to  be  remembered.  Hardly  as  much  can  be  said 
for  any  of  his  dramatic  work,  though  his  tragedy,  Cato,  had 
great  success,  chiefly  because  it  was  viewed  as  a  political 
document  supporting  the  Whig  party. 


162 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Marriage.  —  Addison  held  various  political  positions, 
rising,  in  1717,  to  be  Secretary  of  State.  In  1716  he  married 
the  Countess  (Dowager)  of  Warwick,  who  according  to 
common  tradition  made  him  a  far  from  ideal  mate.     At 

present  one  had  better  say  that . 
the  evidence  on  this  point  seems 
entirely  inconclusive. 

The  Death  Scene.  —  111  health 
forced  him  to  resign  his  secre- 
taryship after  a  year;  and  a 
^K.  ^^ifc^^^^  year  after  his  resignation  he 
^^^^H^^^^H  died.  Probably  no  historian  or 
^^^^^^^^H  biographer  would  dare  conclude 
^^^^^^^^■r*  a  sketch  of  Addison  without  re- 
^^^^^fljf^-  lating  that  on  his  death- bed  he 
called  in  the  wild  young  Earl 
of  Warwick,  and  said  to  him : 
"  See  how  a  Christian  can  die."  Most  of  those  telling  this 
incident  seem  to  imply  that  it  is  a  model  scene  for  such 
occasions. 

One  can  appreciate  Addison's  value  to  his  time  as  a 
moral  force  without  subscribing  fully  to  such  a  panegyric 
as  Macaulay  pronounced  upon  him;  and  however  highly 
one  may  regard  his  character,  he  was  too  truly  a  product 
of  his  age  to  be  a  model  Christian. 


Addison. 


By  mentioning  the  difficulty  of  considering  the  work  of 
Steele  and  Addison  separately  we  have  not  meant  that  the 
essays  of  the  two  are  not  really  distinguishable.  Outside 
of  the  periodicals  there  is,  of  course,  no  difficulty ;  and  only 
a  few  numbers  of  The  Toiler  and  The  Spectator  are  of  doubtful 
authorship. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       163 

The  De  Coverley  Papers.  —  What  is  meant  by  the  state- 
ment above  may  be  indicated  by  noting  the  facts  regarding 
the  writing  of  the  De  Coverley  Papers.  Although  Sir 
Roger  or  some  member  of  his  household  is  frequently  referred 
to,  the  Baronet  himself  is  really  characterized  in  only  twenty- 
five  papers,  of  which  Steele  wrote  eight  and  Addison  seven- 
teen. On  the  basis  of  numbers  Sir  Roger  seems  to  be 
Addison's.  On  the  other  hand,  the  character  was  conceived, 
as  has  been  said,  in  Steele's  brain.  Furthermore :  the  first 
two  pictures  of  the  Worcestershire  squire  are  from  Steele 
( The  Spectator,  numbers  2  and  6) ;  not  until  number  34  did 
Addison  find  an  interest  in  Sir  Roger ;  and  the  characteriza- 
tion would  be  very  incomplete  without  Steele's  essays  on 
"  Sir  Roger  in  Love,"' "  The  Family  Portraits,"  and  some 
others. 

"The  Spectator"  Modeled  on  "The  Tatler."  — Without 
undervaluing  The  Tatler,  we  may  say  with  reason  that  it 
formed  an  excellent  training  school  for  the  writers  of  The 
Spectator.  The  effort  to  show  striking  differences  between 
the  journals,  and  to  attribute  these  to  the  change  in  the  domi- 
nating spirit,  is  not  fruitful.  The  Spectator  Club  is  much 
like  the  Trumpet  Club  (The  Tatler,  no.  132)  in  conception. 
The  latter  contains  a  knight.  Sir  Geoffrey  Notch,  and  an 
army  man.  Major  Matchlock;  the  former  contains  Sir 
Roger  and  Captain  Sentry.  "  The  Editor's  Troubles " 
( The  Tatler,  no.  164)  is  virtually  presented  to  us  in  improved 
form  in  "The  Club  Again"  (The  Spectator,  no.  34).  The 
story  of  the  beautiful  rivals,  "  Clarinda  and  Chloe  "  (The 
Tatler,  no.  94),  is  paralleled  by  "  Brunetta  and  Phillis  " 
(The  Spectator,  no.  80).  "The  Vision  of  Justice"  (The 
Tatler,  nos.  100,  102)  is  similar  to  "  The  Vision  of  Mirzah  " 
(The  Spectator,  no.  159). 


164  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Pictures  of  London  Life.  —  The  interest  of  both  periodicals 
to-day  comes  from  the  presentation  of  the  England,  more 
particularly  the  London,  of  Queen  Anne  —  the  social,  political, 
moral,  and  aesthetic  life  of  the  time.  Since  the  most  distinc- 
tive institution  of  the  time  was  the  coffee-house,  establish- 
ments of  this  class  fill  a  large  place  in  The  Tatler  and  The 
Spectator.  An  early  issue  of  the  latter  (no.  49)  is  given  wholly 
to  discussion  of  coffee-houses ;  and  in  both  journals  there  is 
a  pretence  of  dating  the  publication  from  some  specific  house. 

Influence  of  the  Periodicals.  —  The  aim  of  the  earlier 
paper,  as  stated  in  its  "  Advertisement,"  was  "  to  offer 
something  whereby  [certain]  worthy  and  well-affected 
members  of  the  commonwealth  may  be  instructed,  after 
their  reading,  what  to  think ;  "  that  is,  its  aim  was  moral. 
That  of  the  later  paper  (set  forth  in  no.  10)  was  "  to  enliven 
morality  with  wit,  and  to  temper  wit  with  morality."  The 
influence  of  the  two,  particularly  that  of  The  Spectator,  on 
the  age  is  as  noteworthy  as  is  their  picture  of  the  age.  This 
influence  is  universally  attributed  to  Addison ;  and  in  the 
words  of  Mr.  Gosse,  "  It  was  out  of  proportion  with  the  mere 
outcome  of  his  literary  genius."  Whether  or  not  we  to-day 
consider  his  last  words  as  beautiful,  they  reflect  what  Addison 
was  to  his  time.  The  influence  of  The  Spectator  in  curbing, 
not  merely  open  immorality,  but  the  emptiness  and  little 
vices  of  everyday  life,  was  great,  and  was  due  chiefly  to  the 
popular  conception  of  the  man  who  had  most  weight  in  fixing 
the  character  of  its  pages. 

ALEXANDER  POPE,  1688-1744 

Pope's  Power.  —  It  is  of  profound  significance  that  Pope's 
poetry  influenced  Lord  Byron,  a  poet  of  revolt,  more  than 
half  a  century  after  Pope's  death.     Such  an  influence  by  a 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      165 

man  with  frail  body  and  without  the  aid  of  patronage  argues 
real  power;  and  the  power  is  to  be  found  in  the  perfected 
couplet  of  which  we  spoke  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 
In  the  words  of  Arnold  *  the  characteristic  features  of  Pope's 
poetry  are  "  regularity,  uniformity,  precision,  balance ;  " 
features  likely  at  all  times  to  carry  weight.  His  skill  in 
condensation  is  little  short  of  marvelous  —  said  Swift :    /^ 

"In  Pope  I  cannot  read  a  line, 
But  with  a  sigh  I  wish  it  mine ; 
When  he  can  in  one  couplet  fix  ,j'y 

More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  six."  ' 

Pope's  Weakness.  —  Yet  the  readers  who  to-day  give 
Pope  high  rank  as  a  poet  are  not  numerous.  We  may  admit 
the  truth  and  force  of 


"Words  are  Uke  leaves;   and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  seldom  found ; " 


or  of 

"Order  is  heaven's  first  law;   and  this  confessed, 
Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the  rest," 

and  yet  refuse  the  name  of  great  poet  to  the  writer  of  the 
lines.  They  are  entirely  typical  of  Pope's  best;  and  they 
are  almost  entirely  lacking  in  imagination  and  feeling. 
"  There  are  no  depths  in  Pope  and  there  are  no  heights ;  he 
has  neither  eye  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  nor  ear  for.  her 
harmonies." 

Disadvantages  and  their  Result.  — Pope  was  born  with  two 
of  the  same  disadvantages  as  Defoe  —  humble  birth  and 
Nonconformity.  His  father  was  a  linen-draper  and  a  Roman 
Catholic;  and  the  son,  though  he  rose  in  the  social  scale, 
never  wavered  in  his  religious  faith.     He  labored  under  a 

*  Essay  on  Johnson's  "Chief  Lives  of  the  Poets." 


166 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


third  disadvantage,  already  mentioned,  a  frail  body.  Thus 
there  was  closed  to  him  every  calling  requiring  physical 
strength ;  and  since  Nonconformists  were  not  then  admitted 
to  the  universities,  higher  education  was  also  beyond  his 
reach.     With  these  limitations  he  definitely  set  out  for  a 

career  in  the  profession  of  let- 
ters, an  uncommon  thing  at  the 
time. 

Beginnings  of  Authorship.  — 
Before  the  publication  of  his 
Pastorals  in  1709  Pope  had  be- 
gun to  cultivate  men  of  letters, 
and  repeatedly  endeavored  to 
use  their  judgment  in  place  of 
the  university  training  he  had 
missed.  This  first  volume  shows 
that  the  writer  was  already  able 
to  write  smooth  and  effective 
verse.  An  Essay  on  Criticism 
(1711)  established  Pope's  posi- 
tion with  his  contemporaries  as  a  great  poet.  It  does  not 
aim  to  be  original,  but  to  be  a  setting  forth  in  the  best  form 
of  what  the  world  had  long  known ;  exemplifying  a  couplet 
in  the  poem : 

"True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed." 

"  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.*'  —  In  1712  appeared  the  work 
by  which  Pope  is  most  generally  known  outside  of  academic 
or  literary  circles.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  This  mock-heroic 
poem  attempted  to  restore  friendly  relations  between  a 
fashionable  young  lady  and  a  young  lord  who  had  cut  a 
lock  of  her  hair.     It  shows  some  advance  in  versifying  power, 


Pope. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       167 

and  the  discovery  by  the  author  that  fashionable  society  is 
a  suitable  subject  for  certain  kinds  of  poetry. 

Pope's  Homer. — Three  years  after  The  Rape  the  first 
volume  of  a  work  appeared  which  proved  to  be  a  great 
financial  success  —  the  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  AK 
though  it  was  highly  esteemed  throughout  the  eighteenth 
and  well  into  the  nineteenth  century,  it  is  not  a  good  trans- 
lation. A  great  scholar  of  the  day  said :  "  It  is  a  pretty  poem, 
Mr.  Pope,  but  you  mustn't  call  it  Homer."  The  supposed 
translator  knew  little  Greek,  and  depended  largely  on  the 
assistance  of  friends  and  on  a  comparison  of  previous  transla- 
tions. The  Iliad  was  completed  in  1720;  and  five  years 
later  appeared  the  first  volume  of  the  Odyssey.  No  matter 
what  merit  it  may  possess  as  an  English  poem,  it  is  equally 
with  its  predecessor  an  inaccurate  and  unsatisfactory  rep- 
resentation of  Homer. 

A  single  illustration  will  make  this  clear.  Near  the  begin- 
ning of  Book  VI  Pope  has  Nausicaa  address  Alcinous  thus : 

"Will  my  dread  sire  his  ear  regardful  deign, 
And  may  his  child  the  royal  car  obtain  ? 
Say,  with  my  garments  shall  I  bend  my  way 
Where  through  the  vales  the  mazy  waters  stray?" 

A  nearly  literal  translation  (Butcher  and  Lang's)  runs  as 
follows : 

"Father  dear,  couldst  thou  not  lend  me  a  high  wagon  with 
strong  wheels,  that  I  may  take  the  goodly  raiment  to  the  river 
to  wash,  so  much  as  I  have  lying  soiled?" 

Twickenham.  —  Since  the  publication  of  the  first  portions 
of  the  Iliad,  Pope  had  been  a  wealthy  man ;  and  a  large 
portion  of  his  wealth  he  expended  on  an  estate  at  Twicken- 
ham, on  the  Thames  a  few  miles  above  London.  Here  for 
twenty-five  years  he  held  court,  and  was  visited  by  the  great 


168  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

of  his  day  —  men  and  women,  politicians  and  literary  folk, 
English  and  French.  His  gardens  were  laid  out  after  the 
French  fashion,  and  were,  like  his  poetry,  models  of  "reg- 
ularity, uniformity,  precision,  balance." 

"The  Dunciad." — Another  work  which  involved  great 
and  continued  labor,  which  was  little  suited  to  Pope's  abili- 
ties, but  which  was  financially  a  successful  venture,  appeared 


Twickenham  Ferry  on  the  Thames. 
Site  of  Pope's  famous  villa. 

in  the  same  year  as  the  Odyssey  —  his  edition  of  Shakspere. 
It  cannot  be  said  that  Pope  added  greatly  to  our  under- 
standing or  appreciation  of  the  great  dramatist.  His  edition 
was,  however,  responsible  for  his  most  important  work  in  his 
most  effective  field,  The  Dunciad,  or  "  Epic  of  Dunces,"  ^ 
Lewis  Theobald  (Tibbald),  the  best  Shakspere  scholar  of  his 
day,  published  a  volume  pointing  out  Pope's  numerous  errors. 
Pope  came  back  with  his  "  epic,"  of  which  Theobald  was  the 

1  Compare  with  Dryden's  Mac  Fleknoe,  above,  page  128, 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      169 

hero.  Virtually  every  other  writer  who  had  in  any  way  in- 
curred the  satirist's  displeasure  —  and  they  were  legion  — 
was  also  lashed  in  the  poem,  and  it  caught  the  public  at 
once.  So  great  was  its  success  that  it  was  considerably  ex- 
tended in  succeeding  editions;  and  in  one  of  these,  Theo- 
bald, who  had  been  sufficiently  punished,  yielded  the  place 
of  hero  to  CoUey  Gibber,  Poet  Laureate,  new  offender  of  the 
"  wicked  wasp  of  Twickenham." 

Late  Works.  —  Two  other  works  of  Pope's  should  be 
mentioned  which  belong  to  his  last  years  —  Imitations  of 
Horace  (commonly  called  Satires),  and  Essay  on  Man.  In 
these  we  have  the  poet's  best  satire  and  his  best  verse.  If 
one  is  not  pleased  by  the  little  dashes  of  personal  spite  in  the 
Satires,  one  can  still  find  entertainment  and  food  for  thought 
in  reading  that  Shakspere 

"For  gain,  not  glory,  wing'd  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite." 

The  Satires  are  full  of  pleasant  passages,  of  which  the  follow- 
ing is  typical : 

"Of  little  use  the  man  you  may  suppose 
Who  says  in  verse  what  others  say  in  prose ; 
Yet  let  me  show,  a  poet's  of  some  weight, 
And  (the'  no  soldier)  useful  to  the  state. 
What  will  a  child  learn  sooner  than  a  song? 
What  better  teach  a  foreigner  the  tongue  ? 
What's  long  or  short,  each  accent  where  to  place, 
And  speak  in  public  with  some  sort  of  grace? 
I  scarce  can  think  him  such  a  worthless  thing, 
Unless  he  praise  some  monster  of  a  king ; 
Or  virtue,  or  religion,  turn  to  sport. 
To  please  a  lewd,  or  unbelieving  Court." 

The  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  or  Prologue  to  the  Satires, 
aside  from  unjust  characterizations  of  Addison  and  other 


170  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

contemporaries,  presents  an  amusing  picture  of  Pope's 
position.  A  literary  power,  he  is  sought  by  all,  and  the  result 
is  not  agreeable : 

"Is  there  a  parson  much  bemused  in  beer, 
A  maudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk  foredoom'd  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross  ? 
Is  there,  who  lock'd  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desp'rate  charcoal  round  his  darken'd  walls? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 


Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie." 

"  Essay  on  Man."  —  The  Essay  on  Man  is  perhaps  Pope's 
most  ambitious  work.  It  is  a  long  philosophical  poem  on  the 
text.  "Whatever  is,  is  right;"  and  seeks,  using  a  phrase 
very  similar  to  Milton's,  to 

"vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 

As  a  whole,  it  cannot  be  understood  without  some  knowledge 
of  a  great  religious  controversy  of  its  day;  but  like  all 
Pope's  works,  it  is  full  of  clean-cut,  polished,  quotable 
couplets. 

"Oh  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  giv'n, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heaven." 
******* 

"Know  then  this  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know) : 
•Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below.'" 

It  is  in  the  perfected  workmanship  of  detached  passages 
that  Pope's  real  merit  is  found. 

End  of  the  "  Long  Disease."  —  Pope's  life  was  embittered 
by  many  quarrels,  mostly,  it  would  seem,  provoked  by  him 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       171 

and  without  sufficient  cause.  Much  is  still  not  clear  regard- 
ing these ;  and  even  if  the  worst  aspect  of  them  be  true,  they 
are  somewhat  pardonable.  "  This  long  disease  "  he  called 
his  life;  and  his  day  was  hardly  capable  of  producing  a 
Stevenson  to  cope  with  lifelong  infirmity.  If,  moreover,  he 
made  many  enemies,  he  made  many  and  true  friends. 
During  his  last  illness  these  friends  were  frequently  at 
Twickenham,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  face 
death  peacefully  and  not  unhappily.  He  died  May  30, 
1744,  and  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  wish,  in  Twick- 
enham Church. 


7  ^^^^.     ^  J.Ay^t.: 


Facsimile  of  Pope's  Autograph. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

Pope's  Position.  —  Around  the  life,  character,  and  writings 
of  Pope  something  of  a  controversy  is  still  waging ;  and  the 
end  is  not  in  sight.  As  long  as  men  hold  different  stand- 
ards of  poetic  art,  so  long  will  there  be  dispute  as  to  Pope's 
place  in  English  poetry.  "  The  question,"  says  a  recent 
writer,  "  is  essentially  one  of  temperament."  As  long  as 
men  differ  in  their  interpretation  of  admitted  facts,  so  long 
will  there  be  dispute  whether  Pope  was  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning.  It  may  be  said  with  some  truth  that  this 
second  question  is  also  "  essentially  one  of  temperament." 
But  there  is  seldom  a  middle  ground  for  the  student  of  Pope  : 
he  will  champion  the  poet's  cause  without  stint,  or  he  will 
condemn  it  with  heat. 


172  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

We  have  said  that  the  style  of  poetry  begun  by  Dryden 
and  estabhshed  by  Pope,  both  form  and  subject-matter, 
held  sway  throughout  the  eighteenth  century.  Writing 
by  rule  became  the  proper  mode,  the  effect  of  which  may  be 
seen  in  that  Pope's  portions  of  his  Odyssey  are  not  strikingly 
distinguished  from  those  of  his  (certainly  inferior)  co- 
laborers.  The  heroic  couplet  was  the  accepted  measure; 
contemporary  society  in  its  most  superficial  aspects  was  the 
accepted  subject.  Bold  must  be  the  man  who  ventured  to 
depart  from  these.  A  few  there  were,  however,  who  even  in 
Pope's  lifetime  did  break  from  the  beaten  track,  and  strike 
out  in  byways  more  congenial.  Among  the  most  notable 
of  these  was 

JAMES   THOMSON,    1700-1748 

•  Forerunner  of  Romanticism.  —  In  the  year  1726,  when 
Pope's  popularity  and  influence  were  at  their  height,  Thomson 
published  a  poem  called  Winter.  Both  as  to  subject  and 
form  it  holds  an  important  place  in  the  history  of  English 
poetry.  The  matter  of  the  poem  is  the  "  wild  pagan  graces 
and  savage  grandeur  of  external  nature  "  (J.  L.  Robinson), 
substituted  for  the  "  reigning  fopperies  of  a  tasteless  age  " 
(Thomson's  preface) :  the  form  is  blank  verse,  which  had 
fallen  upon  evil  days  in  the  sixty  years  since  Milton's  death. 
Thomson  has  been  with  good  right  called  the  "  forerunner  " 
of  the  movement  in  poetry  called  "  romantic,"  which  super- 
seded the  school  of  Pope  at  the  close  of  the  century.^ 

Life  in  Scotland.  —  Thomson  was  bom  at  Ednam,  a 
village  in  the  southeastern  part  of  Scotland,  the  region  made 

*  It  seems  best  to  defer  definition  of  the  "romantic"  movement. 
Those,  however,  who  wish  to  take  it  up  at  this  point  will  find  the 
subject  treated  on  pages  219-223. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS        173 

famous  by  Walter  Scott.  Soon  after  the  poet's  birth  his 
father  moved  to  the  near-by  town  of  Jedburgh ;  and  here  the 
poet  received  his  early  education.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he 
entered  Edinburgh  University.  Although  he  was  connected 
with  this  institution  for  ten  years,  first  in  the  college  of  arts 
and  later  in  the  college  of  divinity,  and  although  he  completed 
the  arts  course,  he  took  no  degree.     According  to  his  most 


Jedburgh  Abbey. 
The  grammar  school  was  kept  here  in  Thomson's  day. 

recent  biographer,^  the  degree  had  then  "  fallen  into  dis- 
regard," and  was  applied  for  by  few. 

"  The  Seasons."  —  In  February,  1725,  Thomson  went  to 
London  to  try  his  fortune  in  literature ;  and  thirteen  months 
later  published  a  poem  called  Winter.  It  was  well  received, 
four  editions  were  sold  within  a  year,  and  the  author  aban- 

'  G.  C.  Macaulay,  in  English  Men  of  Letters  series. 


174  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

doned  all  thought  of  pursuing  further  his  studies  in  divinity. 
In  the  succeeding  four  years  appeared  Summer,  Spring,  and 
Autumn,  following  the  same  plan,  subject,  and  form ;  and 
in  1730  the  four  were  collected  in  one  volume  called  The 
Seasons. 

Later  Life,  —  Thomson  then  secured  a  position  as  travelling 
tutor  to  a  nobleman's  son,  and  spent  something  more  than  a 
year  on  the  Continent,  Neither  this  nor  any  subsequent 
outward  experience  of  his  life,  it  appears,  had  any  im- 
portant influence  on  his  poetry.  He  held  office  under  the 
government  for  a  time,  enjoyed  for  ten  years  a  pension  from 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  in  other  ways  profited  by  the  favor 
of  great  folk.  In  1736  he  took  up  residence  in  Richmond,  a 
suburb  of  London  about  a  mile  from  Twickenham,  where  he 
made  his  home  until  his  death,  A  close  friendship  between 
Pope  and  Thomson  grew  up,  and  the  great  man  appreciated 
his  neighbor's  genius  thoroughly. 

Death.  —  Thomson  was  buried  in  Richmond  Church, 
Another  Richmond  poet,  William  Collins,  wrote  a  noteworthy 
Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson,  beginning : 

"In  yonder  grave  a  druid  lies," 
and  containing,  among  many  memorable  lines,  these : 

"The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 

Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom ; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress, 

With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb." 

Fourteen  years  after  the  "  druid's  "  death  a  monument  to 
hiin  was  erected  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Although  Thomson  wrote  several  dramas,  a  long  patriotic 
poem  called  Liberty,  and  a  few  minor  poems,  his  fame  rests 
on    two    productions  —  The    Seasons,    and    The    Castle   oj 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      175 


Indolence,  composed  during  the  twelve  years  of  his  residence 
at  Richmond  and  published  a  few  months  before  his  death. 
Of  The  Seasons  enough  has  been  said,  it  is  hoped,  to  send  the 
reader  to  its  pages,  at  least  for  specimens  of  the  author's 
descriptive  power.  Of  the  later  work  something  should  be 
said. 

"The  Castle  of  Indolence." 
—  The  Castle  of  Indolence  has 
been  called  an  apology  for  the 
author,  whose  besetting  sin  was 
generally  known,  and  a  warning 
to  those  who  were  tempted  to 
indulge  in  the  same  sin.  The 
poem  is  "  writ  in  the  manner  of 
Spenser ;  "  that  is,  in  the  Spen- 
serian stanza  with  a  fondness  for 
obsolete  words,  and  with  an  un- 
completed allegory.  Although 
it  has  unquestionable  claims  to 

immortality  as  a  whole,  and  still  greater  claims  for  individual 
portions,  the  greatest  value  of  the  Castle  is  as  a  milestone 
in  the  course  of  the  Romantic  movement.  The  reversion 
to  one  of  the  most  artistic  of  Elizabethan  poetic  forms  is  of 
great  significance  in  the  movement ;  and  the  departure  from 
accepted  subjects  hardly  less  so. 

Thomson's  Great  Historic  Value.  —  To  assign  a  writer 
to  "  a  place,  high  if  not  of  the  highest,  among  poets  of  the 
second  order,"  as  Saintsbury  does  Thomson,  is  to  give  him 
about  as  inexact  a  rating  as  one  can  think  of.  It  seems, 
moreover,  aside  from  the  point.  Whatever  may  be  Thom- 
son's intrinsic  worth,  his  place  will  be,  in  the  minds  of  most 
rea,ders,  that  indicated  at  the  beginning  of  our  sketch  —  a 


Thomson. 


176  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

forerunner  of  the  movement  in  poetry  which  half  a  century 
later  announced  its  arrival  with  the  writings  of  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats. 

The  Age  of  Johnson 

Although  the  name  of  Samuel  Johnson  stands  out  con- 
spicuously in  English  literature  between  1744  and  1798,  he 
wielded  no  such  influence  as  did  Pope.  The  reasons  are 
numerous.  In  the  first  place,  Johnson  was  essentially  a 
conservative,  had  nothing  new  or  better  to  offer  the  age, 
and  the  age  was  beginning  to  weary  of  things  that  had  been 
the  glory  of  the  previous  period.  In  the  second  place,  the 
wave  of  Romanticism  was  too  strong  to  be  stemmed  by  any 
man's  influence,  and  Johnson  lacked  qualifications  neces- 
sary to  ride  on  its  crest.  In  the  third  place  —  and  this  is 
by  much  the  weightiest  reason  —  Johnson  was  emphatically 
and  whole-heartedly  English,  "  the  typical  Englishman 
among  our  men  of  letters,"  while  the  tendencies  of  his  time 
were  to  make  English  literature  European.  To  this  last 
point  we  must  return  later. 

Johnson's  Acceptance  of  Augustan  Standards.  —  So  far 
as  Johnson's  influence  counted  at  all,  it  counted  in  favor  of 
maintaining  Augustan  standards.^  His  verse  is  in  the  heroic 
couplet;  fear  of  his  disapproval  probably  led  Goldsmith  to 
adopt  the  couplet  for  his  great  descriptive  poems,  for  which 
it  was  but  ill  suited.  The  titles  of  Johnson's  poems  — 
London,  and  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  —  indicate  his 
entire  acquiescence  in  the  Augustans'  choice  of  subjects. 
He  undertook  to  revive  the  periodical  essay,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  Goldsmith.     He,  like  Pope  (and  others  whom  it 

'  At  this  point  the  student  may  well  review  pages  135-139. 


FROM    DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      177 

has  not  seemed  necessary  to  mention),  edited  Shakspere. 
Following  the  lead  of  Defoe  and  Swift  he  wrote  a  didactic 
treatise  in  the  form  of  a  novel. 

His  critical  bias  may  be  indicated  by  two  passages  from  his 
Lives  of  the  PoeU  :  "  Surely  no  man  could  have  read  Lycidas 
with  pleasure,  had  he  not  known  the  author  "  ;  "  If  the  writer 
of  the  Iliad  were  to  class  his  successors,  he  would  assign  a  very 
high  place  to  his  translator  {i.e.,  Pope),  without  requiring 
any  other  evidence  of  his  genius."  The  critic  who  assigns 
a  low  place  to  Lycidas  on  its  intrinsic  value,  and  a  high 
place  to  Pope's  Iliad,  is  an  unsafe  guide. 

Limitations  on  Johnson's  Influence.  —  But  Johnson's  lit- 
erary influence  was  not  great  beyond  a  select  group  in  London 
known  as  "  The  Club,"  of  which  he  was  the  centre.  When 
Pope  "  held  court  "  at  Twickenham,  all  classes  of  writers 
sought  his  advice,  and  acted  on  it ;  when  Johnson  sat  with 
the  Club  at  the  Turk's  Head  Tavern,  his  hearers  were  few, 
and  most  of  them  were  not  primarily  men  of  letters.  Not 
only  were  there  too  many  writers  to  be  dominated  by  one 
individual :  they  were  too  widely  scattered.  The  pursuit  of 
letters  was  not  confined  to  the  metropolis ;  it  was  carried 
on  in  the  shades  of  the  uhiversities,  in  Scotch  cities  and 
towns,  in  obscure  hamlets. 

World- trend  toward  Democracy.  —  Greater  than  all  other 
reasons  for  the  failure  of  Johnson  to  dictate  successfully  was 
the  progress  of  the  democratic  idea.  The  importance  of  the 
individual,  be  he  king  or  peasant,  was  slowly  but  surely 
fixing  itself  in  men's  minds.  Johnson  wrote  a  pamphlet 
called  Taxaiion  No  Tyranny,  defending  England  for  her 
conduct  toward  America ;  but  some  forward-looking  men  — 
Burke,  Pitt,  and  Fox,  for  example  —  realized  that  England's 
conduct  could  not  longer  be  defended  against  the  great  world- 


178 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


movement  toward  democracy.  Johnson  looked  over  to 
France  and  caught  not  even  a  glimpse  of  the  same  tendency 
there,  which  was  to  culminate  five  years  after  his  death  in 
the  fall  of  the  Bastille. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON,    1709-1784 

Early  Life.  —  Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield,  a  cathedral 
town  in  Staffordshire,  about  a  hundred  miles  from  London. 

His  father,  Michael 
Johnson,  was  a  book- 
seller by  occupation,  a 
High  Churchman  and 
Tory  in  politics,  some- 
time magistrate  and 
sheriff.  The  son's  early 
education  was  very  dis- 
connected, including 
some  years  at  Lichfield 
Grammar  School,  one 
year  at  Stourbridge  in 
the  adjoining  county  of 
Worcestershire,  some 
years  not  consecutive 
under  private  teachers, 
and  some  years  of  mis- 
cellaneous reading  in 
his  father's  bookshop. 
From  his  schooldays 
the  accomplishment 
that  stands  out  most 
notably  is  his  marvellous  memory,  .which,  says  Boswell, 
"  was  so  tenacious  that  he  never  forgot  anything  that  he 
either  heard  or  read." 


Lkhfielu  C'atiieduai.. 
"Queen  of  English  Minsters." 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       179 

College  Days.  —  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  prides  itself 
considerably  on  the  fact  that  Johnson  was  one  of  its  students ; 
and  cherishes  among  its  valued  possessions  a  teapot  said  to 
have  been  his.  He  entered  the  college  in  1728,  left  it  in 
1731  without  a  degree,  and  was  not  in  residence  continuously. 
"  Miserably  poor  "  as  he  himself  said  he  was,  he  seems  to 
have  been  very  httle  indebted  to  Pembroke.  Boswell  was 
unable  to  find  even  that  he  "  formed  any  close  intimacies 
with  his  fellow  collegians." 

A  Struggle  for  a  Place.  —  Shortly  after  he  left  Oxford  and 
returned  to  Lichfield,  his  father  died,  and  from  the  encum- 
bered estate  Samuel  inherited  only  a  few  pounds.  The  story 
of  the  twenty  years  upon  which  he  now  entered  is  the  story 
of  the  slow  struggle  of  merit  to  its  deserved  place  in  the 
world.  He  first  took  the  position  of  assistant  in  a  school, 
but  found  it  so  galling  an  occupation  that  he  gave  it  up  after 
a  few  months.  Then,  while  visiting  a  friend  in  Birmingham, 
he  became  acquainted  with  a  publisher,  for  whom  he  did  his 
first  piece  of  writing.  It  was  a  translation  from  the  French 
of  a  Voyage  to  Abyssinia,  in  the  preface  to  which,  says  Bos- 
well very  rightly,  "  the  Johnsonian  style  begins  to  appear." 
A  single  clause  will  illustrate  its  two  chief  characteristics  — 
balanced  structure,  and  large,  learned  words :  "  The  reader, 
will  here  find  no  regions  cursed  with  irremediable  barrenness 
or  blest  with  spontaneous  fecundity." 

Marriage  and  Trip  to  London.  —  Johnson  married  in 
1735  Mrs.  Porter,  of  Birmingham,  a  widow  twenty  years 
older  than  himself,  with  a  grown  daughter.  Though  much 
has  been  made  both  in  earnest  and  in  sport  of  this  queer 
"  love  match  on  both  sides,"  its  importance  lies  largely  in 
its  effect  on  Johnson's  movements.  With  the  lady's  dowry 
he  opened  a  private  school  in  Lichfield,  which  occupied  him 


180 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


a  year  and  a  half  before  failing  utterly.  Then  came  the 
memorable  fortune-seeking  journey  to  London,  in  company 
with  a  pupil,  David  Garrick,  destined  soon  to  become  the 
greatest  actor  and  stage-manager  of  his  day. 

For  ten  years  he  engaged  in  various  kinds  of  literary  hack- 
work.    The  year  1747  may  be  taken  as  the  turning-point  in 

his  life ;  for  in  that  year  he  is- 
sued the  plan  for  a  dictionary 
of  the  English  language,  a  work 
which  would  surely  not  have 
been  intrusted  to  any  man  not 
possessed  of  evident  and  un- 
usual powers.  Before  the  com- 
pletion of  the  work  Mrs.  John- 
son died;  and  the  husband 
adopted  the  only  solace  open 
to  a  man  of  his  character  — 
hard  work. 

The  "Dictionary."— The  dic- 

Samuel  Johnson.  ,.  ,.,___  j 

tionary  appeared  in  1755;   and 
After  one  of  Reynolds's  nu-       ^i  ,        ..  •     j       t  i.  » 

merous  portraits.  though     it     raised     Johnson  s 

reputation  immensely,  it  did 
not  make  him  financially  comfortable,  for  the  reason  that 
the  large  sum  due  him  for  his  labor  had  been  drawn  in  ad- 
vance of  publication.  The  dictionary  had  many  short- 
comings. It  showed  the  author's  prejudices  ("  oats,  a  grain 
which  in  England  is  given  to  horses,  but  in  Scotland  sup- 
ports the  people  ") ;  it  showed  the  compiler's  fondness  for 
high-sounding  words  ("  network,  anything  reticulated  or 
decussated  at  equal  distances,  with  interstices  between  the 
intersections  ") ;  it  showed  the  author's  ignorance  of  the 
Teutonic  languages,  from  which  so  much  of  the  English 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS     181 

vocabulaxy  is  derived.  It  was,  however,  a  great  improve- 
ment over  its  predecessors;  and  Johnson  clearly  deserves 
all  the  fame  it  brought  him. 

Lord  Chesterfield.  —  A  by-product  of  the  dictionary  is 
one  of  the  most  delightful  things  Johnson  wrote  —  a  letter 
to  Lord  Chesterfield. 
When  the  work  was 
first  undertaken,  John- 
son, on  advice,  sought 
this  nobleman's  patron- 
age. Discouraged  in  his 
advances,  he  desisted. 
Just  before  the  work 
appeared,  Chesterfield 
realized  its  importance, 
and  wrote  two  advance 
notices  commending  the 
author.  The  latter 
would  have  none  of  his 
commendation,  and  ad- 
dressed to  Chesterfield 
a  note  which  for  exqui- 
sitely polite  and  scath- 
ing satire  has  never 
been  surpassed.  "  Is 
not  a  patron,  my  Lord, 
one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling  for 
life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached  the  ground  en- 
cumbers him  with  help  ?  "  So  writes  the  "  writer  of  dic- 
tionaries, a  harmless  drudge,"  *  and  signs  himself  "  Your 
Lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant." 


?-- 

/w 

^HwuvA   ^  yi^^   ''^^ 

♦•^ 

A.  ^.^Aoa,  wf^-»--3r 

^UJ^J.  tfc^  ^  4;^flwUij,}V^, 

'w.^TiL, 

w^  «M5  iir*.  i«M^  ^  ^y^' 

^. 

J^. 

%►/»:. 

J»M.  »ita^.«4<L  q^yv- 

V<-»o4*.  /jv»»*. 

ft          «  «     '" 

^Mrf-a'N.  ijt^^ 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Samuel 
J0HN8ON. 

(New  York  Public  Library.) 


*  His  definition  of  "lexicographer." 


182  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Johnson's  edition  of  Shakspere  and  his  Lives  of  the  Poets 
appeared  in  1765  and  1779-1781.  The  Lives,  despite  the 
critical  bias  already  mentioned  (see  page  177),  are  valuable 
because  of  facts  not  elsewhere  accessible,  and  because  of  the 
generally  sane  criticism  of  the  greater  poets  dealt  with.  The 
Shakspere  has  no  independent  value,  either  for  text  or 
comment. 

"  Rasselas."  —  One  other  work,  written  somewhat  earlier, 
may  be  noticed  at  this  point.  This  is  Rasselas,  Prince  of 
Abyssinia,  characterized  above  as  a  "  didactic  treatise  in 
the  form  of  a  novel."  In  theme  it  resembles  his  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes,  stated  thus  at  the  close  of  Chapter  XI  of 
Rasselas  :  "Human  life  is  everywhere  a  state  in  which  much 
is  to  be  endured  and  little  to  be  enjoyed."  The  book  as  a 
whole  is  Johnson's  answer  to  the  boundless  optimism  of  his 
day.  The  philosopher  Imlac,  whom  one  is  often  tempted 
to  identify  with  Johnson,  deals  interestingly  with  many 
problems ;  and  curiously  anticipates  some,  as,  for  example, 
the  problem  of  artificial  flight  in  Chapter  VI.  An  incidental 
interest  attaches  to  Rasselas  from  the  fact  that  it  was  com- 
posed in  the  evenings  of  a  single  week,  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  his  mother's  funeral. 

A  Pensioner.  —  After  the  publication  of  the  dictionary 
Johnson's  financial  condition  was  never  uncomfortable.  It 
was  further  improved  soon  after  the  accession  of  George  III 
by  a  pension  of  £300  a  year.  Since  in  his  dictionary  he 
had  defined  pension  as  "  pay  given  to  a  state  hireling  for 
treason  to  his  country,"  he  was  in  many  quarters  condemned 
for  accepting  the  gift.  No  stain,  however,  could  possibly 
attach  to  his  conduct;  for  he  had  been  assured  that  the 
pension  was  in  recognition  of  past  services,  and  not  in  anti- 
cipation  of   future   ones.     One   sentence   in   his   letter   of 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS    183 


acceptance  to  the  Prime  Minister,  should  put  the  situation 
beyond  question :  "  You  have  conferred  your  favors  on  a 
man  who  has  neither  aUiance  nor  interest,  who  has  not 
merited  them  by  services,  nor  courted  them  by  officiousness ; 
you  have  spared  him  the  shame  of  soHcitation  and  the  anxiety 
of  suspense." 

Boswell  and  "  The  Club."  —  In  the  year  following  the 
granting  of  the  pension  James  Boswell  came  into  Johnson's 
life ;  and  in  the  year  following 
this  (1764)  "The  Club"  was 
formed.  This  famous  organi- 
zation included  in  its  member- 
ship Johnson,  Boswell,  Gold- 
smith, Burke  the  statesman, 
Reynolds  the  painter,  Garrick 
the  actor,  and  other  leaders  in 
every  important  walk  of  Eng- 
lish life.  The  group  were  influ- 
ential in  many  ways  for  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century,  and  Johnson 
was  their  leader  to  the  day  of 
his  death. 


Garrick. 


"Doctor  "  Johnson.  —  Though  universally  known  as  "Doc- 
tor "  Johnson,  the  title  was  not  his  imtil  his  fifty-sixth  year, 
when  Dublin  University  gave  it  to  him.  Oxford  did  the 
same  ten  years  later. 

Tour  of  the  Hebrides.  —  The  only  other  event  of  John- 
son's life  calling  for  mention  is  a  tour  of  the  Hebrides,  in 
company  with  Boswell,  in  1773.  Two  years  afterward  he 
published  an  account  of  the  tour  under  the  title,  A  Journey 
to  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland;   not  at  all  a  guide-book. 


184     .  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

but  a  series  of  observations  on  a  people  and  a  civilization 
altogether  new  to  him. 

Character  and  Personality.  —  Johnson  died  in  London, 
December  13,  1784,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
His  character  and  personality  are  better  and  more  widely 
known  than  those  of  any  other  English  man  of  letters.  Bos- 
well  has  told  the  whole  story,  sparing  none,  himself  least  of 
all.  Johnson  was  blunt,  rough,  prejudiced,  dictatorial, 
slovenly  in  dress  and  table  manners,  given  to  queer  per- 
formances, like  touching  every  lamp  post  as  he  went  down 
town.  He  was,  on  the  other  hand,  a  stanch  friend,  a  very 
wise  as  well  as  a  learned  man,  devoutly  religious,  and  con- 
siderate of  those  who  needed  his  consideration. 

JAMES   BOSWELL,    1740-1795 

Johnson's  biographer  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  of  a  good 
family.  Against  his  will  he  prepared  for  his  father's  profes- 
sion of  law.  During  a  tour  on  the  Continent  he  sought  and 
obtained  a  meeting  with  Paoli,  the  hero  of  Corsica,  then 
struggling  for  its  freedom.  On  his  return  he  wrote  an  Ac- 
count of  Corsica,  sang  the  praises  of  the  island,  its  people, 
and  its  leader ;  and  according  to  his  own  story,  was  known 
in  Edinburgh  as  "  Paoli  Boswell."  Macaulay  says  "  he 
was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  of  that  brilliant  society 
which  has  owed  to  him  the  greater  part  of  its  fame." 

Two  Views  of  Boswell.  —  Boswell  was  ever  a  seeker  of 
notoriety,  a  worshipper  of  heroes ;  and  Macaulay  makes  much 
of  this  characteristic.  "  He  was  always  laying  himself  at 
the  feet  of  some  eminent  man,  and  begging  to  be  spit  and 
trampled  upon."  Carlyle,  in  an  essay  which  is  largely  a 
reply  to  Macaulay's,  points  out  that  somehow  Boswell  never 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS    185 

attached  himself  to  an  unworthy  "eminent  man."  If  noth- 
ing but  vanity  inspired  Boswell,  says  Carlyle,  "  was  Samuel 
Johnson  the  man  of  men  to  whom  he  must  attach  himself  ?  " 
And  again :    "  Boswell  wrote  a  good  book  because  he  had  a 


.  .  because  of  his  love 
Towards  Johnson,  his 


heart  and  an  eye  to  discern  wisdom, 
and  childlike  open-mindedness.  .  .  . 
feeling  was  .  .  .  reverence,  which  is 
the  highest  of  human  feelings." 

The  Life  of  Johnson  appeared  in 
1791,  and  met  with  immediate  suc- 
cess. The  author  enjoyed  his  fame 
but  four  years,  dying  at  the  compar- 
atively early  age  of  fifty-five. 

Boswell's  Place  in  Literature.  — 
In  a  second  passage  dealing  with 
Johnson  and  Boswell,*  Carlyle  ex- 
tends his  praise  of  his  fellow- 
countryman.  "  We  will  take  the 
liberty,"  says  he,  "  to  deny  alto- 
gether that  saying  of  the  witty 
Frenchman,  that  no  man  is  a  Hero 
to  his  valet.  Or  if  so,  it  is  not  the 
Hero's  blame,  but  the  Valet's :  that  his  soul,  namely,  is  a 
mean  valet-soul !  .  .  .  The  Valet  does  not  know  a  Hero 
when  he  sees  him !  Alas  no :  it  requires  a  kind  of  Hero 
to  do  that.  ...  On  the  whole,  shall  we  not  say,  that  Bos- 
well's admiration  was  well  bestowed  ?  "  Add  to  this  not 
quite  impartial  estimate  the  fact  that  Johnson  certainly 
valued  Boswell's  friendship  greatly,  and  we  have  no  need 
to  make  apologies  for  Boswell  the  man.  He  might  be  nick- 
named,  after  the  manner  of  another  friend  of  Johnson's 


Boswell. 


'  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship,  "The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters." 


186  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

("  Single-Speech  "  Hamilton),  "  Single-Book  "  Boswell,  and 
yet  be  worthy  of  a  higher  place  in  the  annals  of  literature 
than  many  men  having  numerous  volumes  to  their  credit. 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH,    1728-1774 

Boswefl's  Attitude  toward  Goldsmith.  —  Two  portraits  of 
Goldsmith  have  been  familiar  for  many  years :  Boswell 's 
and  that  of  other  people.  When  Boswell  is  stating  facts, 
we  may  accept  them  as  such,  though  a  recent  biographer  of 
Goldsmith  ^  questions  both  Boswell's  accuracy  and  his  good 
faith.  When,  however,  Johnson's  worshipper  ventures  upon 
a  judgment  of  Goldsmith,  implicit  confidence  cannot  be 
placed  in  his  statements.  He  was  extremely  jealous  of 
every  one  favored  by  his  idol ;  and  his  envy  of  Goldsmith 
appears  to  have  been  as  great  as  he  thought  Goldsmith's 
envy  of  Johnson  was. 

Personality.  —  Yet  there  is,  in  Boswell's  estimate  of 
Goldsmith,  one  word  which  seems  the  most  adequate  possible 
to  characterize  the  man.  It  is  the  word  "  singular."  Gold- 
smith was  truly  "  singular  "  in  appearance,  dress,  manage- 
ment (or  mismanagement)  of  finances,  manner  of  talking, 
and  above  all,  in  manner  of  writing.  These  singularities 
are  given  an  unfavorable  twist  by  Boswell;  but  this  has 
been  more  than  counteracted  by  the  favorable  interpreta- 
tions of  Washington  Irving  and  many  subsequent  critics. 
The  general  estimate  is  well  put  in  Irving's  opening  sentence : 
"  There  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  per- 
sonal kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  for  few  have  so 
eminently  possessed  the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves 
with  their  writings."     To  know  Johnson  one  must  go  to 

I  F.  F.  Moore  (1911). 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       187 

Boswell :  to  know  Goldsmith,  one  need  not  add  a  line  to  the 
works  bearing  his  own  name. 

Birth  and  Schooling  —  Irish.  —  He  was  the  fourth  child 
of  an  Irish  village  preacher,  and  was  born  in  an  Irish  vil- 
lage (name  and  location  still  in  dispute),  November  10,  1728. 
Of  several  schools  and  masters  figuring  in  his  early  life,  the 
only  one  to  be  remembered  is  Thomas  (better  known  as 
"  Paddy ")  Byrne,  a  much-travelled  retired  soldier,  who 
filled  Oliver's  head  with  stories  and  ballads  of  many  lands. 
"  Paddy  "  is  immortalized  in  those  lines  of  The  Deserted 
Village,  beginning: 

"Beside  yon  straggUng  fence  that  skirts  the  way," 
of  which  perhaps  the  most  famous  line  is : 

"For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  stiU." 

In  College  —  m  Ireland.  —  The  family  finances  did  not 
permit  of  Oliver's  attending  college;  but  through  the  aid 
of  an  uncle.  Rev.  Mr.  Contarine,  he  was  admitted  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  in  1744.  One  of  the  stories  told  of  his  col- 
lege days  indicates  why  we  feel  for  him  the  "  personal  kind- 
ness "  mentioned  by  Irving.  A  friend  who  called  for  him  on 
the  way  to  breakfast  one  day  found  Goldsmith  unable  to 
rise.  The  night  before  he  had  given  his  blankets  to  a  poor 
woman,  had  crawled  into  the  bed-ticking  for  warmth,  and 
in  the  morning  found  difficulty  in  freeing  himself.  This  was 
not  the  only  occasion  with  Goldsmith  when,  as  did  the  parson 
in  his  Deserted  Village, 

"His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began." 

The  Ministry;  Law;  Medicine.  —  After  graduation  from 
college  he  was  persuaded  to  prepare  for  the  ministry,  but 
was  refused  when  he  applied  to  the  bishop  to  be  ordained. 
Uncle  Contarine  then  advised  him  to  study  law,  and  sup- 


188  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

plied  funds  for  the  purpose.  By  some  misadventure  he  lost 
his  money  before  reaching  London,  and  returned  home. 
Some  months  later  Uncle  Contarine,  hearing  an  esteemed 
friend  say  that  Oliver  would  make  a  good  doctor,  again 
found  funds  to  send  the  boy  to  Edinburgh.  Having  failed 
to  make  connection  with  the  church  and  the  bar,  Goldsmith 
was  now  to  try  the  last  of  the  "  learned  professions." 


ji^fi^Ji-n 

y-f-^^ 

/^-^^  y^^  fU< 

U^f      ffU^ 

{^/ 

HvXi 

J     1 

■  '  c^A>^4  ^'- 

u  ^ 

/t<la.     < 

.  ..  ,„.A    ^-C-^-  '«-/' 

'  ...  yW.--^ 

5%c<w,'C 

^<_     ii<n» 

.»-,-T.^ 

I.  si^<    e- 

V  •  i    ^    r 

y  a./i-f-^ 

(,<n-    . 

''.         .'/(a 

o-<- 

.  ..   z^- 

<!    -/<U 

a-CC^ 

-^\   .4. 

"    an^     un  ^t  fc-« 

^iL  ^,i,. 

..'..  -^r' 

i  n^ 

A-  ^  U  .>->»        1,-tv. 

i  -V-t 

.^   :^<v|-  >-«.a.C     -t  .■  / 

'-*^-    '..'^ 

-t. 

/'  "^ 

Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Goldsmith.' 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

/Travel  on  the  Continent.  —  After  a  year  and  a  half  in 
Edinburgh,  he  decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  continue 
his  medical  studies  on  the  Continent,  and  wrote  his  generous 
uncle  to  that  effect.  The  uncle  again  filled  his  purse,  and 
Goldsmith  spent  a  year  in  travel,  returning  to  England  with 
(according  to  his  own  unsupported  assertion)  a  medical  de- 
gree. It  is  very  generally  believed  that  the  travels  of  George 
Primrose,  in  Chapter  XX  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  repre- 
sent not  inaccurately  the  author's  own  experiences. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      189 

First  Literary  Associations.  —  Mr.  Contarine  was  dead 
when  Goldsmith  reached  England,  and  no  other  of  his  kin 
would  help  him  in  any  way.  Somehow  he  got  to  London, 
and  for  a  time  was  hard  pushed  to  keep  soul  and  body  to- 
gether. While  practising  medicine  on  a  very  small  scale, 
he  became  acquainted  with  the  novelist-printer,  Samuel 
Richardson,  and  through  Richardson  with  other  literary 
men.     After  various  bits  of  hackwork  for  the  publishers. 


Goldsmith  and  Johnson. 

Examining  the  MS.  of  The  Vicar,  to  decide  whether  it  will  sell  and  get 
Goldsmith  out  of  debt. 

Goldsmith's  first  work  under  his  own  name,  Inquiry  into  the 
Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,  appeared  in  1759. 
Two  years  later  he  met  Johnson,  through  whose  aid  he 
rapidly  enlarged  his  circle  of  literary  friends,  and  became  one 
of  the  original  members  of  "  The  Club." 

"  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  —  Probably  the  most  familiar 
and  the.  most  interesting  incident  connecting  Johnson  and 
Goldsmith  is  that  of  the  discovery  of  The  Vicar.     Receiving 


190  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

one  morning  an  urgent  call  from  his  young  friend,  Johnson 
went  to  his  rooms  and  found  him  under  arrest  for  non-pay- 
ment of  rent.  The  manuscript  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield 
was  produced  as  a  possible  asset,  Johnson  saw  its  merit  at 
a  glance,  and  succeeded  in  selling  it  for  sixty  pounds.  The 
Vicar  was  not  published,  however,  until  the  poem  called 
The  Traveller  had  made  the  author's  fame  secure. 

Last  Years.  —  Goldsmith  lived  but  ten  years  after  the 
publication  of  The  Traveller,  dying  at  the  age  of  forty-six. 
They  were  busy  years ;  they  were  well-paid  years ;  they 
brought  many  happy  experiences  to  Goldsmith ;  but  they 
were  not  peaceful,  contented  years.  Still  like  the  preacher 
in  his  Deserted  Village,  he  was 

"More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise." 

Of  Goldsmith  it  might  also  be  said : 

"The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
****** 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe. 

****** 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side." 

If  he  had  a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  and  was  solicited  by  an 
apparently  deserving  person,  he  was  likely  to  give  the 
whole,  though  it  left  him  without  provision  for  his  next  meal. 
After  his  death,  we  are  told,  the  stairway  to  his  lodging  was 
filled  with  weeping  poor  folk  whom  he  had  befriended. 

Five  Chief  Works.  —  Goldsmith's  fame  as  a  man  of  let- 
ters rests  on  five  works  written  in  the  last  decadje  of  his 
life.     Three  of  these  have  been  mentioned  —  a  novel.   The 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      191 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  two  poems,  The  Traveller  and  The 
Deserted  Village.  The  other  two  works  are  plays,  The 
Good-Natured  Man,  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  Of  two  of 
these,  The  Vicar  and  The  Deserted  Village,  something  has 
been  said  to  bear  out  living's  remark  about  his  iden- 
tifying himself  with  his  writings.  The  schoolmaster  in 
The  Deserted  Village  is  largely  a  portrait  of  "Paddy" 
Byrne ;  the  preacher  is  apparently  a  composite  of  Goldsmith's 
father,  brother,  Uncle  Contarine,  and  a  touch  of  himself. 
Many  features  of  the  village  itself  have  caused  it  to  be  iden- 
tified with  Lissoy,  where  the  author  spent  his  childhood. 
George  Primrose,  in  various  chapters  of  The  Vicar,  bears  a 
strong  resemblance  to  his  creator;  and  the  Vicar  himself. 
Dr.  Primrose,  had  an  original  similar  to  that  of  the  village 
preacher. 

In  The  Traveller;  or,  A  Prospect  of  Society,  and  in  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer;  or.  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night,  Goldsmith 
drew  directly  on  his  own  experiences.  The  former  describes 
in  verse  the  scenes  viewed  by  him  on  his  European  tour, 
and  sets  forth  the  sentiments  and  philosophic  speculations 
aroused  by  them.  The  latter  pictures  a  practical  joke  played 
upon  him  in  his  youth,  when  he  was  sent  to  a  private  home 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  an  inn,  and  conducted  him- 
self with  the  freedom  proper  to  the  supposed  situation. 

Goldsmith  the  "  Lovable."  —  While  the  stairway  to  Gold- 
smith's death  chamber  was  crowded  with  poor  friends  whom 
he  had  helped,  creditors  were  estimating  the  value  of  his 
scanty  possessions.  Though  for  many  years  well  paid,  he 
was  always  in  debt.  Not  only  did  he  give  unwisely;  he 
spent  unwisely  and  extravagantly  upon  himself,  lived  in 
better  quarters  and  wore  better  clothes  than  he  could  af- 
ford.    It  is  recorded  of  the  tradesmen,  however,  that  they 


192 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


showed  no  hard  feelings  toward  him,  and  that  nearly  all  ex- 
pressed belief  in  his  honesty  and  integrity.  Two  sisters  to 
whom  he  was  indebted,  on  hearing  of  his  financial  troubles, 
said :  "  Sooner  persuade  him  to  let  us  work  for  him  gratis 
than  apply  to  any  other;  we  are  sure  he  will  pay  us  when 
he  can." 


I^^U^ 

'i^vsfKmi: 

i    t           .1*1   '       '  1u 

^rJ^F    ^H^         J^ 

55=^  :?3tipiy9- 

^^^^^■i^            "^^^B 

Goldsmith's  Grave. 
In  the  Middle  Temple,  London. 

"Let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered,"  said  Johnson; 
"  he  was  a  very  great  man."  To  this  it  should  be  added 
that  probably  no  other  English  author  is  so  often  described 
as  lovahle. 

EDMUND   BURKE,    1729-1797 

A  Contrast  with  Goldsmith.  —  There  could  scarcely  be 
found  a  greater  contrast  between  personalities  than  between 
Goldsmith  and  Burke.  No  one  thinks  of  calling  Burke 
"  lovable ;  "  his  "  frailties  "  are  not  apparent ;    while  there 


FROM   DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       193 


may  have  been  grief  at  his  death,  there  was  very  httle  sor- 
row such  as  affected  Goldsmith's  wide  acquaintance  so  deeply. 
"  That  fellow  calls  forth  all  my  powers,"  said  Johnson ; 
and  it  was  nearly  always  Burke's  intellect  that  impressed 
people. 

Burke,  like  Goldsmith,  was  an  Irishman  by  birth  and  edu- 
cation; like  Goldsmith,  too,  he  belonged  to  the  circle  of 
Johnson's  intimates  included 
in  the  original  membership  of 
*  *  The  C  lub ."  Hewasmost  not- 
ably unlike  his  fellow-country- 
man in  his  handling  of  money: 
he  was  not  conspicuous  as  a 
giver,  and  he  acquired  a  large 
estate,  which  he  kept  up  in 
elaborate  style.  So  strongly  did 
he  impress  his  age  that  shortly 
after  his  death  a  great  statesman 
said :  "  There  is  but  one  event, 
but  that   is   an   event  for  the  Burke. 

world  —  Burke  is  dead."  After  a  portrait  by  Roraney. 


Public  Career.  —  From  his  thirtieth  year  Burke  was  in 
public  life,  as  secretary  to  cabinet  ministers,  member  of 
Parliament,  prosecutor  of  Warren  Hastings,  and  Paymaster 
of  Forces.  In  his  public  career  he  was  occupied  with  three 
great  questions :  troubles  with  America,  British  misgovem- 
ment  in  India,  and  the  French  Revolution.  After  champion- 
ing the  cause  of  liberty  on  the  first  two,  he  seemed  to  many 
to  be  a  turncoat  on  the  third.  But  the  truth  is,  that  he  was 
disheartened  by  the  excesses  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  did 
not  understand  the  real  nature  of  the  Revolution.  Those 
who  could  see  beneath  the  surface  of  that  fearful  upheaval 


194  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

comprehended  clearly  its  causes  and  aims  as  almost  identical 
with  those  of  America.  Had  Burke  so  understood  it,  he 
would  beyond  a  doubt  have  arrayed  himself  on  the  side  of 
the  people. 

Burke  and  America.  — Burke's  conduct  regarding  America 
must  ever  be  the  brightest  chapter  in  his  life.  The  fact 
that  the  main  basis  of  his  appeal  for  the  colonies  was  not 
legal  right,  but  expediency,  does  not  in  the  least  dim  its  lustre. 
In  the  speech  On  Conciliation  he  eloquently  set  forth  why  the 
American  colonists  were  jealous  of  their  rights  as  English- 
men; why,  in  the  light  of  similar  cases,  they  naturally  ex- 
pected conciliation ;  and  why,  in  the  very  nature  of  the  case, 
they  must  triumph.  In  addition  to  his  speeches  on  America, 
Burke  dealt  with  the  subject  in  one  notable  document. 
Letter  to  the  Sheriffs  of  Bristol  (1777),  the  constituency  which 
he  was  representing  in  Parliament.  Here,  without  the  heat 
of  debate,  and  with  a  careful  marshalling  of  facts  and  reason- 
ing, he  reaches  the  conclusion  as  to  the  war  with  America, 
that  "  its  continuance,  or  its  ending  in  any  way  but  that 
of  an  honourable  and  liberal  accommodation,"  are  "  the 
greatest  evils  which  can  befall  us." 

A  Great  Intellect.  —  Just  as  it  was  Burke's  intellect  that 
impressed  those  who  knew  him  in  the  flesh,  so  it  is  with  those 
who  know  him  only  in  the  printed  page.  Perhaps  the  high- 
est compliment  ever  paid  him  is  one  often  quoted  from  the 
pen  of  John  Morley.  Speaking  of  the  three  pieces  on  the 
American  Revolution  (speeches  On  Taxation  and  On  Con- 
ciliation, and  Letter  to  the  Sheriffs)  Morley  says :  "  It  is  no 
exaggeration  to  say  that  they  compose  the  most  perfect 
manual  in  our  literature,  or  in  any  literature,  for  one  who 
approaches  the  study  of  public  questions,  whether  for 
knowledge  or  for  practice." 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       195 

Having  followed  Johnson  and  his  circle  of  prose  masters 
through,  we  must  turn  back  in  time  and  study  some  poets 
who  did  not  belong  to  the  "  School  of  Pope."  Thomson, 
the  forerunner  of  Romanticism,  was  not  an  isolated  figure. 
Other  poets  were  inwardly  rebelling  against  the  domination 
of  the  polished  couplet,  the  satiric  muse,  and  the  pictures 
in  verse  of  London  society.  Three  of  these  stand  out  prom- 
inently —  Collins,  Gray,  and  Cowper. 


Facsimile  of  Burke's  Autograph. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

WILLIAM    COLLINS.    1721-1759 

Life  through  College.  —  Of  Collins's  short  and  by  no  means 
happy  life,  few  facts  are  known.  He  was  born  in  Chichester, 
county  of  Sussex,  near  the  end  of  the  year  1721 ;  tradition 
says  on  Christmas  Day.  At  Winchester  for  seven  years  he 
prepared  for  Oxford,  and  entered  Queen's  College  at  the  age 
of  nineteen.  The  next  year  he  moved  to  Magdalen,  and  was 
graduated  from  that  college  two  years  later.  Virtually 
nothing  is  known  of  his  college  days,  or  of  his  reasons  for 
leaving  the  university  without  even  applying  for  a  fellow- 
ship. 

Later  Life,  and  Death.  — From  1743  to  1749  he  lived  in 
London,  and  wrote  most  of  his  best  poetry.  He  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Johnson  and  some  of  his  associates,  and  as 


196  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

has  been  noted,  that  of  James  Thomson.  Toward  the  end 
of  his  London  period  ColHns  took  lodgings  in  Richmond, 
and  became  intimate  with  Thomson,  upon  whose  death  he 
wrote  the  fine  ode,  beginning 

"  In  yonder  grave  a  druid  lies." 

In  1749  the  poet  inherited  a  comfortable  fortune  from  an 
uncle,  and  in  the  same  year  returned  to  his  native  town  to 
live.  Not  long  afterwards  he  became  the  victim  of  melan- 
cholia, which  developed  into  insanity,  necessitating  his 
confinement  for  a  time  and  bringing  about  his  death  in 
Chichester  in  his  thirty-eighth  year. 

In  Spirit  a  Romanticist.  —  The  volume  of  Collins's  poetry 
is  small,  less  than  2000  lines  ;  and  even  this  small  product  is 
not  uniformly  excellent.  Five  poems  belong  almost  in  the 
first  rank:  How  Sleep  the  Brave,  Ode  to  Evening,  The  Pas- 
sions, On  the  Death  of  Thomson,  and  An  Ode  on  the  Popular 
Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland.  The  mere  titles 
indicate  his  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  poetic  standards  of 
his  day.  His  importance  in  the  Romantic  movement  arises 
from  his  interest  in  natural  scenes  and  in  subjects  remote 
in  place  or  time,  and  from  the  subjective  character  of  his 
whole  product. 

THOMAS   GRAY,    1716-1771 

Gray's  life  was  almost  as  uneventful  as  was  Collins's. 
He  was  a  lonely  scholar;  and  from  1734  till  his  death,  with 
the  exception  of  two  years  spent  on  the  Continent  and  two 
years  in  London  while  studying  manuscripts  in  the  British 
Museum,  he  lived  a  recluse  in  Cambridge. 

Basis  of  Gray's  Popular  Fame.  —  Although  he  was  born  in 
London  and  spent  most  of  his  life  in  the  university  town. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       197 

Gray's  name  is  inseparably  connected  with  a  spot  quite  re- 
moved from  both  these  places  —  Stoke  Poges  Chm-chyard, 
near  Windsor  and  Eton.  In  the  minds  of  most  English 
readers,  Gray  stands  out  as  the  author  of  Elegy  Written  in 
a  Country  Churchyard,  and  only  that.     Besides  this,  he  wrote 


Stoke  Poges. 


Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,  containing  the 

proverbial  lines : 

"Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Add  to  these  two  other  titles,    The  Progress  of  Poesy,  and 
The  Bard,  with  the  familiar  opening  lines  of  the  latter, 

"Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait,". 


198  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  we  have  practically  all  that  is  known  of  Gray  even  among 
the  well  educated. 

Historical  Importance.  —  More  should  be  known  of  him 
if  we  are  to  recognize  his  historical  importance.  Utterly 
out  of  sympathy  with  conventional  verse,  he  sought  and 
found  inspiration  in  the  literatures  of  the  past.      The  Bard 

a  and  The  Progress  of  Poesy  are  said 
to  be  the  best  Pindaric  odes  ever 
written ;  and  even  a  glance  at  one 
of  these  will  show  the  author's  met- 
rical skill.  The  Progress  of  Poesy  is 
in  three  stanzas,  each  containing 
forty-one  lines ;  each  stanza  is  in 
three  parts  —  strophe,  antistrophe, 
and  epode  —  as  in  the  odes  of 
Pindar;    and  the  three  strophes  are 

identical  in  construction,  as  are  the 
Gray  in  Silhouette.         ,,  .   ,        ,  i     .1        ,1 

three   antistrophes,   and    the    three 

epodes.     Such  learning  as  Gray's  had  not  expressed  itself 

in  verse  since  Milton.     Later  he  became  interested  in  old 

Scandinavian  literature,   under  the  influence  of  which  he 

wrote  The  Fatal  Sisters  and  The  Descent  of  Odin.     Study  of 

early  English  poetry  and  of  Celtic  also  influenced  his  writing. 

Greatness  of  the  "  Elegy."  —  The  Elegy  calls  for  notice 
in  valuing  Gray  both  historically  and  intrinsically.  It  is 
the  greatest  of  a  number  of  poems  of  the  time  striking  the 
note  of  melancholy,  and  its  popularity  is  well  attested  by 
the  number  of  phrases  it  has  given  to  proverbial  speech : 
"  mute  inglorious  Milton,"  "  village  Hampden,"  "  the  short 
and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  "  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way."  Even  whole  stanzas  are  all  but  universally  remem- 
bered, such  as : 


1^  .^.-^'^--^ '-/  -r^  ^-1  '^-'^  '^ — " 


/i.  ^*-<^  -  /^^  ^'^  X'  /^  ^>^--  ^^^  ^-^ 


Facsimile  of  Gray's  MS.  of  the  £^teffi/. 

A  remarkably  clear  and  even  hand. 

(British  Museum.) 


200  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

A  Classic.  —  Despite  his  small  poetic  output  Gray's 
position  as  a  classic  is  established.  .  Arnold  says  he  is  the 
poetical  classic  of  the  eighteenth  century;  many  regard 
him  as  the  greatest  English  poet  between  Milton  and  Words- 
worth ;  and  virtually  all  allow  him  the  preeminence  between 
Pope  and  Wordsworth. 

WILLIAM   COWPER,    1731-1800 

Characteristics  of  Cowper's  Verse.  —  The  last  of  the  fore- 
runners of  Romanticism  to  be  considered  here  is  William 
Cowper.  One  critic  says  that  he  was  "  not  romantic 
in  any  sense ;  "  another,  that  "  he  stands,  so  to  speak,  at  the 
parting  of  the  ways :  half  a  disciple  of  the  old  order,  half, 
indeed  more  than  half,  a  standard  bearer  of  the  new."  The 
tendency  of  his  longest  poem,  as  stated  by  Cowper,  "  to  dis- 
courage the  modern  enthusiasm  after  a  London  life  and  to 
recommend  rural  ease  and  leisure  as  friendly  to  the  cause  of 
piety  and  virtue,"  certainly  marks  a  clear  separation  from  the 
tradition  of  Pope.  His  love  of  nature,  moreover,  and  his 
many  descriptive  passages ;  his  almost  uniform  sincerity  of 
expression;  his  humor;  these  characteristics  seem  to  make 
clear  that  he  was  not  only  separated  from  the  old,  but  closely 
allied  with  the  new. 

It  would  require  little  effort  to  make  a  lengthy  chronicle 
of  Cowper's  life ;  but  his  poetry  may  be  understood  and 
enjoyed  with  few  facts  of  his  life  as  a  background.  Many 
events  may  be  omitted  as  without  significance,  and  many  of 
slight  significance  may  be  passed  briefly. 


FROM   DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      201 


Schooling.  —  He  was  born  at  Great  Berkhamstead,  Hert- 
fordshire, about  thirty  miles  northwest  of  London ;  and  though 
portions  of  his  Hfe  were  spent  in  half  a  dozen  diflFerent  places, 
he  never  travelled  more  than  fifty  miles  from  London.  At 
one  school  which  he  attended  he  suffered  greatly  from  the 
school  bully,  an  experience  to  which  may  be  due  in  some 
measure  the  emphasizing  of  his 
sensitive  nature  and  of  his  ten- 
dency to  melancholy.  He  did 
not  attend  any  university ;  and, 
though  he  studied  law  in  Lon- 
don and  was  called  to  the  bar, 
he  never  practised. 


A  Troubled  Life.  —  For  a  time 
he  lived  the  life  of  a  London  so- 
ciety man,  to  which  he  was 
drawn  by  love  for  a  cousin.  The 
affair  was  summarily  stopped  by 
her  father.  About  this  time 
Cowper  was  nominated  for  a 
lucrative  clerical  position  in  the  Cowper. 

House  of  Lords ;    but  the  dread 

of  a  public  examination  overwhelmed  him,  and  brooding 
over  it  led  to  an  attack  of  insanity.  After  a  period  of 
confinement  he  was  released  as  cured;  but  he  was  there- 
after almost  always  a  victim  of  religious  melancholy.  In 
1765  he  took  up  his  residence  with  a  family  of  Unwins, 
first  in  Huntingdon,  later  in  Olney.  Mr.  Unwin  died  in 
1767,  and  Cowper  made  his  home  with  the  widow  until 
her  death  in  1796.  The  record  of  their  friendship  is  a 
beautiful  and  spotless  one.  He  nursed  her  through  her 
last  illness ;  and  after  her  death  seemed  unable  to  triumph 


202  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

over  his  recurring  ailment,  dying  himself  less  than  four  years 
after  her. 

Letter-writer  and  Hymn-writer.  —  A  word  should  be 
said  of  Cowper  as  a  letter-writer  and  a  hymn-writer.  In 
the  first  field  he  is  unsurpassed,  not  a  few  saying  that  his 
letters  entitle  him  to  be  ranked  among  great  English  prose 
writers.     His  hymns,  although  they  can  scarcely  be  called 


■^^^,^  •Cot"  f'Cjt-  oC.^  m~y\,t^  a-^-C^^    (n^:v[,>v-4-«iJl«-«wVH_<»T^    r^' 
u^tJMf'C^  Cu.T'^t^a.ZZ^^^   ^ /'C^   \f<..,^,  ^»*.-c  a^t,^    I 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Cowper. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

great  poems,  have  an  assured  place  with  all  sects,  particu- 
larly "  There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood,"  "  Oh  for  a  closer 
walk  with  God,"  "  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way."  These 
served  the  useful  purpose  of  showing  Cowper  that  in  poetic 
composition  he  could  escape  from  his  pursuing  melancholy. 

Lady  Austen.  —  Besides  Mrs.  Unwin,  another  woman  is 
important  in  Cowper's  life  —  Lady  Austen,  whom  he  met  in 
1781.  From  her  he  heard  the  story  which  he  versified  so 
delightfully  as  The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin  — 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      203 

"John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 
Of  famous  London  town." 

From  her  also  he  got  the  start  on  his  most  ambitious  poem, 
The  Task,  the  one  composition  on  which  Cowper's  fame  as 
a  poet  almost  wholly  rests.  When  he  asked  a  subject  for 
a  blank-verse  poem,  Lady  Austen  replied :  "  You  can  write 
on  anything  —  take  the  sofa."     So  The  Task  begins  : 

"I  sing  the  Sofa.     I  who  lately  sang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  touched  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand 
Escaped  with  pain  from  that  adventm-ous  flight, 
Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humble  theme  ; 
The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 
The  occasion  —  for  the  Fair  commands  the  song." 

"  The  Task."  — ^  Even  if  it  is  admitted  that  The  Task  has, 
as  Cowper  asserts,  one  "  tendency,"  it  cannot  be  admitted 
that  it  has  unity.  It  is  perhaps  best  known  by  its  descrip- 
tive passages,  such  as : 

"A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair : 
'Tis  perched  upon  the  green  hill-top,  but  close 
Environed  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms 
That  overhang  the  hatch,  itself  unseen, 
Peeps  at  the  vale  below." 

There  is,  however,  much  reflection,  meditation,  speculation ; 
and  there  are  occasional  bits  of  humor. 

Cowper  in  many  places  suggests  the  sort  of  conventional 
phraseology  established  by  Pope;  for  example,  in  speaking 
of  Lady  Austen  regularly  as  "  the  Fair,"  of  balloon  ascensions 
as  "  aethereal  journeys,"  of  sheep  as  the  "  fleecy  tenants  " 
of  the  sheepfold.  In  this  respect  he  may  be  said  to  be  look- 
ing backward.     In  his  descriptive,  humorous,  and  reflective 


204 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


passages,  however,  he  is  clearly  looking  forward  and  holds 
an  important  place  among  the  Romantic  predecessors  of 
Wordsworth. 

ROBERT   BURNS,    1759-1796 

Burns  a  Romanticist.  —  If  we  judge  by  the  character  of 
his  poetry.  Burns  surely  does  not  belong  among  the  follow- 
ers of  Pope.  The  heroic 
couplet  finds  small  place 
in  Burns's  verse,  though 
nearly  every  familiar  metre 
is  there  represented,  and 
though  there  are  not  a  few 
metres  of  his  own.  There 
is  no  extended  satire  in 
Burns ;  there  is  nothing  of 
fashionable  city  life.  If  we 
class  poets  as  Romanticists, 
as  some  are  inclined  to, 
only  when  their  Romanti- 
cism is  a  deliberate  choice. 
Burns  is  not  among  them. 
Whether,  with  Pope's 
knowledge  of  the  foibles 
and  frivolities  of  society, 
and  with  Pope's  tendency  to  make  enemies  and  then  punish 
them.  Burns  would  still  have  written  about  mice  and  daisies 
and  village  inns  and  "  cronies  "  and  gentle  streams,  is  a 
question.  It  is  certain  that  he  had  not  the  equipment  to 
deal  with  such  subjects  as  Pope  dealt  with.  In  effect  and 
influence  he  is  undoubtedly  of  the  school  of  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  and  the  rest  of  that  glorious  company  who  gave 
such  distinction  to  the  next  age. 


"Bobby"  Burns. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      205 

As  regards  the  man  himself,  it  must  be  admitted  that  there 
are  dark  moments  in  Burns 's  Hfe,  for  which  he  himself  was 
chiefly  responsible ;  but  nothing  is  gained  by  dwelling  upon 
them,  either  for  extenuation  or  apology.  The  only  reason- 
able ground  for  studying  a  poet's  life  is  as  a  means  to  a 
better  understanding  of  his  poetry. 


The  Burns  Cottage  at  Ayr. 
Scotland's  best-loved  shrine. 

A  Shrine  in  Ayrshire.  —  Little  did  William  Burns  imagine, 
when  he  built  a  two-room  clay  cottage  near  Ayr,  in  south- 
western Scotland,  that  the  building  would  some  day  be  set 
apart  as  a  shrine.  That  such  a  thing  has  happened  is  due 
solely  to  the  fact  that  his  first  child,  Robert,  was  born  there. 
The  father's  fame  is  secure  in  the  lines  of  The  Cotter's  Sat- 
urday Night  — 

"The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page," 

as  is  that  of  the  household  of  which  he,  "  the  toil-worn  cot- 
ter," was  head. 


206 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


A  Hard  Life  for  a  Poet.  —  There  were  six  children  besides 
Robert,  and  the  family  went  through  a  continuous  struggle 
for  existence  in  several  different  locations  in  Ayrshire. 
Having  to  do  farm-work  enough  for  a  man,  Robert  got  little 
education.  When  the  father  died  in  1784,  Robert  and  a 
brother  undertook  to  run  a  hundred-acre  farm  at  Mossgiel, 
but  failed  in  two  years  —  "  the  first  year,"  according  to  the 
poet,  "  from  unfortunately  buying  bad  seed ;    the  second. 


InTERIOK    of    BuRNS's    BlUTllPLACE    AT    AyR. 

from  a  late  harvest."  During  these  two  trying  years  Burns 
composed  much,  admittedly  under  the  influence  of  two 
Scotch  poets,  Allan  Ramsay  and  Robert  Ferguson.  Among 
the  famous  poems  belonging  to  the  Mossgiel  period  are  To 
a  Mouse,  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  and  The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night. 

First  Publication.  —  The  publication  of  Burns's  first  vol- 
ume, at  Kilmarnock,  1786,  was  to  procure  money  for  a  busi- 
ness venture.     The  poet,  finding  farming  unremunerative. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS     207 


I       j  I 

mr 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Burns. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 


208  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  supposing  that  poetry  would  scarcely  give  a  living, 
agreed  to  go  to  Jamaica  in  the  capacity  of  bookkeeper  on 
a  plantation.  In  order  to  pay  for  his  transportation  he 
published,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend,  a  number  of  poems 
lying  in  his  table  drawer.  The  enthusiasm  with  which  the 
Kilmarnock  volume  was  received  in  all  directions  promptly 
put  an  end  to  the  Jamaica  scheme.  The  "Ayrshire  Plough- 
man," as  he  now  came  to  be  called,  went  to  Edinburgh  in- 
stead. 

"Winter  in  Edinburgh.  —  "  The  journey  from  Mossgiel  to 
Edinburgh,"  says  Principal  Shairp,  "  was  a  sort  of  triumphal 
progress."  The  feasting  and  enthusiasm  on  the  way  were, 
moreover,  merely  a  foretaste  of  what  the  whole  winter  in 
Edinburgh  was  to  be.  All  classes  welcomed  him  to  their 
homes  and  hearts;  in  one  sense  better  still,  all  subscribed 
liberally  to  the  second  edition  of  his  poems,  published  in 
April,  1787,  "  for  the  sole  benefit  of  the  author."  From  this 
edition  Burns  received  £500,  a  huge  fortune  for  one  of  his 
experience. 

Farewell  to  Greatness  in  Edinburgh.  —  After  travelling 
in  various  parts  of  Scotland,  and  visiting  Ayrshire,  Burns 
returned  to  Edinburgh.  But  his  second  winter  there  was 
not  to  be  a  duplicate  of  the  first.  Though  he  had  been  pro- 
claimed on  all  sides  a  brilliant  conversationalist  and  a  satis- 
factory guest,  the  novelty  of  the  ploughman  poet  had  worn 
off,  and  the  best  of  Edinburgh's  intellectual  and  social  life 
was  weary  of  its  "  lion."  Burns  was,  moreover,  very  proud, 
and  acted  as  if  the  adulation  of  Edinburgh  was  only  his  due. 
He  once  wrote  to  a  friend :  "  I  am  as  proud  as  ever ;  and 
when  I  am  laid  in  my  grave,  I  wish  to  be  stretched  at  my  full 
length,  that  I  may  occupy  every  inch  of  ground  which  I 
have  a  right  to."     In  March,  1788,  he  left  Edinburgh,  and 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      209 

never  again  paid  it  a  lengthy  visit  or  thought  of  it  in  terms  of 
affection. 

Farmer  and  Exciseman.  —  Returning  to  Ayrshire  and 
marrying  Jean  Armour,  the  sweetheart  of  his  youth,  he 
leased  a  farm  at  EUisland,  near  Dumfries,  some  forty  miles 
from  Ayr.  When  the  farm  scarcely  provided  a  living. 
Burns  sought  and  obtained  a  position  as  exciseman,  paying 


Scene  of  the  Fateful  Meeting  of  Tam  and  Souter  Johnie. 

£50  a  year.  It  was  not  a  fortunate  appointment  for  Burns. 
A  fondness  for  alcohol  was  one  of  his  chief  weaknesses,  and 
as  exciseman  he  had  to  be  away  from  home  a  great  deal,  and 
to  come  in  contact  with  alcohol  far  too  much  for  his  welfare. 
Excise  and  farming  were  not  congenial,  and  Burns  had  been 
spoiled  for  farming  by  that  first  winter  in  the  Scotch  capital. 
After  three  years  at  EUisland,  he  gave  up  the  lease,  sold 
farm-stock  and  equipment,  and  took  up  residence  in  the 
town  of  Dumfries. 


210  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

To  the  EUisland  period  belong  the  rollicking  Tam  0' Shunter 
and  many  short  and  beautiful  songs,  including  Flow  Gently, 
Sweet  Afton,  and   Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonny  Boon. 

Early  Death.  —  The  last  years  are  best  passed  over  briefly. 
In  June,  1794,  Burns  wrote  to  a  friend:  "  I  am  afraid  that 
I  am  about  to  suffer  for  the  follies  of  my  youth."     While 


Tam  O'Shantek  Crossing  the  Bridge  of  Ayr. 
The  witch  is  seen  just  seizing  the  gray  mare's  tail.     From  an  old  print. 

some  biographers  have  doubtless  painted  too  darkly  the 
closing  period,  the  best  possible  even  for  a  friend  to  say  is 
that  "  the  untimely  end  of  Burns  was,  it  is  far  too  probable, 
hastened  by  his  own  intemperance  and  imprudence."  ^ 
He  was  never  in  good  health  after  the  letter  just  quoted ; 
and  two  years  later,  July  21,  he  passed  away.  "  His  true 
life,"  said  Lord  Rosebery,  "  began  with  his  death ;   with  the 

*  Lockhart,  Life  of  Scott. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       211 

body  passed  all  that  was  gross  and  impure ;  the  clear  spirit 
stood  revealed,  and  soared  at  once  to  its  accepted  place 
among  the  fixed  stars  in  the  firmament  of  the  rare  immortals." 
To  this  may  fitly  be  added  these  lines  from  William  Watson's 
tribute,  The  Tomb  of  Burns : 

"His  greatness,  not  his  littleness. 
Concerns  mankind." 


"Alloway's  Auld  Hauxted  Kirk." 
Where  Tam  O'Shanter  met  the  witches. 

Poet  of  Man.  —  Burns  is  often  spoken  of  as  a  great  poet 
of  nature;  but  there  is  little  piu-e  description  in  his  work, 
and  that  little  is  not  for  itself  alone.  Nature  is  merely  a 
background  from  which  stands  out  humanity  in  some  guise. 
The  mountain  daisy,  which  he  addresses  affectionately  as 

"Wee,  modest,  erinason-tipped  flow'r," 

turns  out  to  be  of  interest  to  him  only  as  symbolic  of  an 
"  artless  maid  "  or  a  "  simple  bard."  His  apparent  deep 
sympathy  for  a  mouse,  whose  nest  he  turned  up  with  a  plough, 


212  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

becomes  an  effective  illustration  that  the  same  thing  happens 

to  men : 

"The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley." 

He  does,  it  is  true,  assert  that 

"The  muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learned  to  wander 
Adown  some  trottin'  burn's  meander 
And  no  think  lang ;  "  i 

but  what  we  find  in  Burns  of  charming  descriptive  passages 
is  always  incidental  —  man  is  his  subject. 

Poet  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Man.  —  While  this  interest  in 
man  has  a  Scotch  setting,  it  is  much  broader  in  its  reach. 
It  takes  in  all  mankind,  as  is  clearly  shown  by  the  poem 
which,  in  sentiment  at  least,  is  his  climax : 

"For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
|flS|||M  That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

'^^^  Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that." 

Burns's  Songs.  —  But  Burns's  most  enduring  claim  on  the 
world's  gratitude  is  his  songs  —  love  songs,  drinking  songs, 
patriotic  songs,  as  well  as  songs  touching  upon  natural 
scenes,  and  songs  proclaiming  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Most  readers  respond  to 

"Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes  " 

and  to 

"Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot." 

Most  are  thrilled  by 

"Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled." 

1  "And  not  think  the  time  heavy." 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       213 

Despite  the  recollection  that  "  brews "  of  many  kinds 
brought  the  singer's  downfall,  few  are  not  appealed  to  by 
such  songs  as 

"O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut, 
An'  Rob  an'  Allan  cam  to  see." 

The  list  of  his  songs  that  might  be  called  world  favorites  is 
large. 


^^^^^KiiiJf  / 


The  Burns  Mausoleum  at  Dumfries. 

"  Of  all  our  poets,  lyric  and  idyllic,"  says  a  noted  American 
poet  and  critic,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  "  he  is  most 
nature's  darling ;  his  pictures  were  life ;  his  voice  was  free- 
dom; his  heart  was  strength  and  tenderness." 

The  Rise  of  the  Novel 

Although  two  works  of  the  Elizabethan  Age  —  Sidney's 
Arcadia  and  Lyly's  Euphues  —  may  in  a  loose  sense  be 
called  novels ;  and  although  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Gulliver's 
Travels  even  more  nearly  approach  the  modern  conception  of 


214  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

this  type  of  literature,  the  defining  of  the  type  was  yet  to  be 
done.  It  was  done  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury by  four  men  already  named ;  Samuel  Richardson  (1689- 
1761),  Henry  Fielding  (1707-1754),  Tobias  George  Smollett 
(1721-1771),  and  Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1768). 

Novel  and  Romance.  —  The  possibilities  of  the  Crusoe 
and  Gulliver  kind  of  story  are  rather  limited.  The  entire 
interest  is  centred  in  the  action;  incident,  adventure,  is 
all-important;  character-drawing  is  not  even  attempted, 
and  every  figure  in  both  stories  appeals  to  us  not  at  all  for 
what  he  is,  but  solely  for  what  he  does.  Richardson  dis- 
covered the  much  larger  field,  the  novel  of  character.  Be- 
tween these  tWo  types  a  line  is  usually  drawn  by  designating 
Defoe's  the  romance,  and  Richardson's  the  novel.  To  set 
forth  fully  the  distinctive  features  of  each  would  require 
more  space  than  would  be  appropriate  here.  We  will,  there- 
fore, content  ourselves  with  Professor  Cross's  brief  definitions : 

"  That  prose-fiction  which  deals  realistically  with  actual  life  is 
called  preeminently  the  novel.  That  prose-fiction  which  deals 
with  life  in  a  false  or  fantastic  manner,  or  represents  it  in  the  set- 
ting of  strange,  improbable,  or  impossible  adventures,  or  idealizes 
the  virtues  and  the  vices  of  human  nature,  is  called  romance."  * 

Richardson's  Works.  —  Richardson  was  a  London  printer 
who  got  into  literature  quite  by  accident.  Early  in  life  he 
had  been  employed  by  some  unlettered  young  women  to 
write  love-letters  for  them ;  and  when  later  in  life  a  publish- 
ing firm  discovered  his  gift,  they  suggested  that  he  write  a 
volume  of  letters  to  serve  as  models  for  the  uneducated. 
The  idea  came  to  Richardson  that  the  letters  would  gain  in 
interest  if  connected  by  a  thread  of  story ;  and  acting  on  this 

1  The  Development  of  the  English  Novel,  page  xv. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS      215 

idea  he  published  at  the  age  of  fifty-one  Pamela,  or  Virtue 
Rewarded,  a  realistic  story  told  in  letters.  Pamela  Andrews 
is  a  lady's  maid  who  is  persecuted  by  the  lady's  son ;  in  the 
end  he  reforms,  and  becomes  a  model  husband  to  Pamela. 
In  the  correspondence  the  characters  express  themselves 
entirely  without  restraint,  and  thus  seemed  wonderfully 
real  to  readers  of  the  day. 

Eight  years  after  Pamela  came  Clarissa  Harlowe.  The 
heroine  is  of  higher  rank  than  Pamela ;  and  instead  of 
reforming  the  libertine  hero,  Lovelace,  she  becomes  his 
victim  and  dies  of  a  broken  heart.  Despite  the  pleas  of 
sentimental  readers,  communicated  to  the  author  during  the 
publication  of  the  story  in  serial  form,  he  refused  to  conv^ert 
the  brilliant  but  soulless  Lovelace,  and  allowed  him  to  die 
in  a  duel  with  a  defender  of  Clarissa's  name.  In  his  last 
novel,  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  Richardson  aimed  to  portray 
a  fashionable  gentleman  possessed  of  every  virtue,  who  is 
in  the  end  happily  mated  to  a  young  woman  of  correspond- 
ing perfection. 

Richardson's  Influence.  —  All  of  these  novels  suffer  from 
length,  from  an  excess  of  moral  purpose,  and  from  too  much 
fine-spun  sentimentalism.  In  the  analysis  and  portrayal 
of  character,  however,  and  as  a  general  thing,  in  the  logical 
sequence  of  incidents,  they  must  be  regarded  as  fixing  the 
type  of  novel  in  which  George  Eliot,  Thomas  Hardy,  and 
George  Meredith  in  the  following  century  used  their  great 
talents  with  such  marked  success. 

Fielding's  "Works.  —  Henry  Fielding,  after  a  prosperous 
career  as  playwright,  and  a  short  and  uncertain  one  as  lawyer, 
entered  the  field  of  the  novel  to  satirize  Richardson.  Joseph 
Andrews,  published  two  years  after  Pamela,  has  for  its  hero 
the  brother  of  Richardson's  heroine,  possessed,   as  is  his 


216 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


sister,  of  inordinate  virtue,  which  successfully  repels  the 
advances  of  an  immoral  suitor.  Fielding,  once  interested 
in  his  story,  forgot  his  purpose  in  beginning  it,  burlesqued 
various  kinds  of  writing,  ancient  and  modern,  and  created  in 
Parson  Adams  a  figure  ranking  high  among  the  characters 
of  fiction. 

Fielding  wrote  three  other  novels:    Jonathan  Wild,  the 
story  of  an  utterly  depraved  criminal ;   Amelia,  a  social  satire 

dealing  with  the  shady  side  of 
London  life  and  the  inadequacy 
of  English  criminal  laws ;  and 
Tom  Jones :  the  History  of  a 
Foundling,  written  on  a  large 
scale,  and  equally  great  on  the 
side  of  plot,  character,  and 
philosophy  of  life  set  forth  by 
the  author  in  his  own  person. 

"  Tom  Jones :  "  Plot  and 
Method.  —  Coleridge  once  said 
that  the  three  greatest  plots 
he  knew  were  ^Eschylus's 
(Edipus  Tyrannus,  Ben  Jon- 
FiELDiNG.  son's  The  Alchemist,  and  Field- 

ing's Tom  Jones.  Great  as  is 
Tom  Jones  on  the  side  of  plot,  a  fact  which  cannot  be  ade- 
quately set  forth  in  small  space,  it  is  even  more  remarkable 
considered  from  other  points  of  view.  To  each  "  book,"  or 
main  division  of  the  novel,  there  is  an  introductory  chapter, 
which  is,  in  Thackeray's  words,  "  a  sort  of  confidential  talk 
between  writer  and  reader."  Here  Fielding  discusses  in  the 
first  person  and  at  considerable  length  his  methods  and  aims, 
a  procedure  followed  with  great  success  regularly  by  his  pro- 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  LYRICAL  BALLADS       217 

fessed    disciple    Thackeray,    and    occasionally    by    George 
Eliot.i 

Influence  of  Fielding's  Character-drawing.  —  Another 
respect  in  which  Tom  Jones  is  remarkable  is  the  fulness  and 
faithfulness  with  which  the  hero  is  presented.  The  "  un- 
varnished truthfulness  "  of  the  picture  did  not  prove  alto- 
gether acceptable  to  the  next  generation;  and  Thackeray 
in  the  preface  to  Pendennis  (1850)  says :  "  Since  the  author 
of  Tom  Jones  was  buried,  no  writer  of  fiction  among  us  has 
been  permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost  power  a  Man." 
Fielding's  example,  however,  in  throwing  aside  conventional 
modes  of  characterization,  and  presenting  a  hero  just  as  he 
would  have  been  and  acted  in  real  life,  was  of  immense  value 
to  the  master-writers  of  fiction  of  the  next  century. 

Smollett.  —  Of  Smollett  and  Sterne  not  so  much  need  be 
said.  The  former  admitted  his  indebtedness  to  Spanish 
and  French  models,  wrote  several  "  picaresque  "  ^  novels  in 
each  of  which  the  hero  is  a  clever  rascal,  and  the  incidents 
are  told  with  savage  realism.  A  second  point  to  be  observed 
in  Smollett  is  that  in  his  three  best  novels,  Roderick  Random, 
Peregrine  Pickle,  and  Humphrey  Clinker,  he  introduced  a 
new  interest  in  fiction  —  the  sea,  drawing  at  length  on  five 
years'  experience  as  a  surgeon's  mate.  Defoe  had  laid 
scenes  on  an  imaginary  sea :  Smollett  laid  them  on  a  real 
sea,  and  brought  real  English  seamen  into  the  action.  Still 
another  notable  feature  of  Smollett's  works  is  his  charac- 
terization by  peculiarities  of  speech  or  manner,  a  method 
familiar  in  the  work  of  his  most  famous  disciple,  Charles 
Dickens. 

•  See,  e.g.,  Adam  Bede,  Chap.  XVII. 

'  Word  derived  from  Spanish  picaro,  rogue. 


218  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Steme.  —  Sterne's  two  fictions,  Tristram  Shandy  and  A 
Sentimental  Journey,  are  marred  by  an  excess  of  sentimen- 
tality. He  was  notoriously  and  purposely  careless  of  form. 
What  he  contributed  to  the  English  novel  was  some  admir- 
able character-drawing,  including  one  figure  —  Tristram's 
Uncle  Toby  —  universally  admitted  to  be  unsurpassed  in 
eighteenth-century  fiction.  "  As  the  author  of  Tristram 
Shandy,  he  remains,"  says  Sidney  Lee,  "  a  delineator  of  the 
comedy  of  human  life  before  whom  only  three  or  four  humor- 
ous writers  can  justly  claim  precedence."  Admitting  the 
truth  of  even  this  encomium,  we  cannot  place  a  writer  so 
regardless  of  form  as  was  Sterne  on  a  plane  with  his  great 
contemporaries,  Richardson  and  Fielding. 

Other  Novelists  before  1800.  —  The  popularity  of  the  new 
literary  type  produced  a  host  of  novelists  between  1750  and 
1800.  New  sub-types  arose.  In  the  so-called  "  Gothic 
romance,"  of  which  Horace  Walpole's  The  Castle  of  Otranto 
and  Mrs.  Ann  Radcliffe's  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  are  the 
best  representatives,  emphasis  is  laid  on  the  supernatural 
and  the  terrible.  There  was  the  "  novel  of  purpose,"  of 
which  Johnson's  Rasselas  and  Thomas  Day's  Sandford  and 
Merton  are  excellent  examples.  Then  there  was  Goldsmith's 
Vicar,  a  charming  volume,  in  which,  probably  for  the  first 
time  in  English  literature,  an  author  used  experiences  of  his 
own  as  material  for  fiction.  None  of  these  added  anything 
of  value  in  the  defining  of  the  type,  which,  as  has  been  said, 
was  due  to  Richardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  and  Sterne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FROM    THE    PUBLICATION    OF    THE    LYRICAL    BALLADS 
TO  THE   DEATH  OF  RUSKIN    (1798-1900) 

Two  Divisions  of  the  Centviry.  —  English  literature  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  like  that  of  the  eighteenth,  falls  into  two 
plainly  marked  divisions.  In  the  first,  usually  regarded  as 
ending  about  the  time  of  Scott's  death  (1832),  the  tendencies 
already  mentioned  as  present  to  some  extent  in  the  verse 
of  Thomson,  Gray,  and  a  few  others,  found  their  full  expres- 
sion. In  the  second,  though  this  initiative  was  not  lost, 
the  growth  of  the  modern  scientific  spirit  affected  every 
form  of  expression,  gave  a  new  direction  to  the  forces  of  the 
preceding  period,  and  brought  many  new  ones  into  exist- 
ence. 

No  one  person  dominates  either  portion  of  nineteenth- 
century  literature ;  no  figure  stands  out  with  sufficient  promi- 
nence to  give  his  name  to  the  period.  The  time  from  1798 
to  1832  is  known  as  the  Age  of  Romanticism ;  that  from 
1832  to  the  end  of  the  century,  since  it  nearly  coincides  with 
the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria  (1837-1901),  is  called  the 
Victorian  Age. 

The  Age  of  Romanticism 

Difficulty  of  Definition.  —  Now  that,  after  several  hints 
of  the  "  Romantic  "  movement,  we  have  arrived  at  the  neces- 
sity of  a  definition,  we  face  a  great  difficulty.     To  charac- 

219 


220 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Map  of  the  Lake  District. 

This  region  might  almost  be  termed  the  "headquarters"  of  the 

Romantic  movement. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    221 

terize  in  a  few  paragraphs  a  group  of  writers  of  whom  nearly 
every  one  was  a  law  unto  himself,  is  not  an  easy  task.  A 
careful  reading  of  many  volumes  is  necessary  to  get  a  satis- 
factory definition  of  Romanticism.  While,  therefore,  we 
cannot  hope  to  define  the  term  here,  we  can  at  least  set  down 
some  of  the  features  marking  the  period,  enough,  perhaps, 
to  show  the  student  what  he  may  expect  in  the  writers  of 
the  time. 

Two  Characteristics.  —  From  the  diverse  tendencies  and 
productions  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  two  character- 
istics stand  out  as  applicable  to  all :  individualism,  and  a 
revolt  against  tradition  and  authority.  The  heroic  couplet, 
for  example,  ceased  to  be  the  universal  metre,  not  because 
it  was  in  itself  bad,  but  because  for  many  kinds  of  expression 
it  was  unsuitable.  The  dignified  but  heavy  style  of  John- 
son ceased  to  be  the  standard  prose  style,  not  because  it  had 
no  merit,  but  because  writers  refused  longer  to  be  influenced 
by  the  weight  of  Johnson's  name. 

Extent  of  Romantic  Movepient.  —  In  addition  to  mention 
of  these  characteristics,  one  general  observation  should  be 
made:  Romanticism  is  not  an  exclusively  English  move- 
ment. The  spirit  that  produced  it  was  abroad  throughout 
Europe  and  America ;  and  it  was  shown  in  other  fields  than 
literature.  The  American  Revolution  of  1776-1783,  the 
French  Revolution  of  1789-1795,  the  bloodless  English  Revo- 
lution culminating  in  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  all  were  due 
to  the  widespread  spirit  of  revolt.  In  the  literature  of 
France,  Germany,  and  (under  the  designation  of  Trans- 
cendentalism) America,  the  same  note  was  struck  as  in  Eng- 
land, though  somewhat  later.  Hugo,  Dumas,  Sainte-Beuve 
in  France ;  Goethe,  Fichte,  Richter  in  Germany ;  Emerson 
and  Thoreau  in  America,  are  as  truly  described  by  the  term 


222  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"  Romantic  "  as  are  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Scott,  or  any 
writer  treated  in  the  fifty  pages  following  this.  In  Italy  and 
Spain  also  the  movement  was  felt ;  but  these  countries  "  did 
not  exhibit  it  in  such  decisive  form  as  did  Great  Britain, 
France,  and  Germany." 

Aspects   of   Romanticism.  — -  If   individualism   and   revolt 
are  the  keynotes  of  the  movement,  we  can  doubtless  best 


Grasmere  and  its  "One  Green  Island." 

see  its  real  significance  by  studying  the  individual  writers. 
It  will,  however,  be  of  some  value  to  cite  some  aspects  of 
Romanticism  which  appear  with  more  or  less  frequency  and 
with  varying  emphasis  in  several  writers. 

(1)  Perhaps  the  most  striking  mark  of  the  Romanticist 
is  what  we  call  subjective  treatment  of  material ;  that  is,  the 
handling  of  it  so  as  to  show  the  author's  own  observation, 
feelings,  sensations,  interpretation.  (2)  Another  mark  is 
a   love   of  natural   scenery  —  ranging   from   mountains  and 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    223 

ocean  in  one  writer  to  small  flowers  and  quiet  lakes  in 
another. 

"Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain," 

writes  Byron ;  and  Wordsworth : 

"To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

(3)  A  third  mark  is  interest  in,  and  affection  for,  the  past. 
This  is  best  shown  in  Scott's  great  series  of  historical  novels ; 
but  it  also  appears  in  the  frequent  use  of  old  metres  —  the 
Spenserian  stanza  by  Keats,  B;yTon,  and  Wordsworth,  for 
example;  and  the  ballad  measure  by  Coleridge  and  others. 
Charles  Lamb's  fondness  for  writers  of  long  ago  and  for 
quaint  turns  of  expression  found  in  them,  may  be  noted  on 
every  page.  (4)  The  last  mark  necessary  to  be  named  here 
is  the  worship  of  imagination,  a  natural  corollary  to  interest 
in  the  past.  Scott's  novels,  again,  are  an  admirable  illus- 
tration of  this;  so  are  Byron's  tales  of  the  far-away  East; 
and  possibly  better  than  either  of  these,  Coleridge's  best- 
known  poems  —  The  Ancient  Mariner,  Christabel,  and  Kubla 
Khan. 

With  this  brief  characterization  of  the  period  from  1798 
to  1832,  we  turn  to  the  leading  writers  for  detailed  study. 
The  poets  were  the  first  to  give  effective  expression  to  the 
new  spirit,  and  we  shall  treat  the  poets  first. 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH,    1770-1850 

Slow  Journey  to  Recognition.  —  That  the  new  poetry  did 
not  make  its  way  immediately  is  quite  clear.  The  maga- 
zine editors  ridiculed  Wordsworth's  simple  style  and  humble 
subjects.     A  traveller  in  Wordsworth's  neighborhood,  some 


224  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

years  after  the  poet  had  written  great  poems,  innocently 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  written  anything  except  the  Guide 
to  the  Lakes.  Even  Byron,  later  one  of  the  extreme  figures 
in  the  revolt,  satirized  Wordsworth  in  an  early  poem  as 

"  The  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule." 
The  poet  said  that  for  years  the  income  from  his  poetry  was 


^  ■  n.vM.viAR  School  at  Hawkshead. 

not  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  shoestrings.  His  ultimate 
artistic  triumph  is  made  evident  in  many  ways,  not  the  least 
being  his  appointment  as  poet  laureate  in  his  seventy-third 
year.  This  honor  came  solely  in  recognition  of  his  achieve- 
ment, and  with  the  understanding  that  the  services  usually 
belonging  to  the  position  would  not  be  expected  of  him. 

Early  Life  and   Education.  —  Wordsworth  was  born   in 
Cockermouth,  county  of  Cumberland,  the  northwest  corner 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    225 

of  England  famOiarly  known  as  the  Lake  District.  There 
he  lived  for  seven  years,  when  he  was  sent  to  school  at  Hawks- 
head,  about  twenty  miles  distant.  The  eight  years  at  Hawks- 
head,  ending  with  his  removal  to  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, were  very  happy.  No  evidence  is  available  point- 
ing to  special  distinction  at  school ;  and  the  evidence  of  his 
autobiographical  poem.  The  Prelude,  points  only  to  his  being 


Interior  of  Hawkshead  School. 
Wordsworth's  desk  is  just  at  the  right  as  one  enters. 

a  very  healthy  boy,  fond  of  sports  and  outdoor  life.  Nor  did 
he  at  all  distinguish  himself  at  the  University,  though  he 
was  graduated  in  regular  form  in  1791. 

Influence  of  the  French  Revolution.  —  Leaving  Cambridge, 
he  spent  some  time  in  France,  and  became  enthusiastic 
over  the  Revolution.     Of  this  time  he  wrote : 

"Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  I" 


226 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


The  excesses  of  the  Revolution  lessened  his  enthusiasm ;  and 
for  some  years  after  his  return  to  England  he  suffered  much 
from  the  unsettling  of  his  faith  in  mankind. 

With  Sister  and  Friend.  —  In  1795  he  and  his  beloved 
and  devoted  sister  Dorothy  settled  in  Dorsetshire,  south- 
west England,  pre- 
pared for  an  existence 
0)f  "  plain  living  and 
high  thinking,"  sup- 
ported only  by  a  legacy 
of  £900  left  by  a  friend. 
They  then  moved  to 
Alfoxden,  in  the  ad- 
joining county  of  Som- 
erset, attracted  thither 
chiefly  by  the  person- 
ality of  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge.  When  the 
Wordsworths  returned 
to  the  Lake  District 
to  live,  Coleridge  fol- 
lowed ;  and  their 
friendship  continued 
till  Coleridge's  death. 
To  Coleridge,  Words- 
worth dedicated  The 
Prelude;  and  he  is 
frequently  referred  to  in  other  poems. 

"Lyrical  Ballads."  —  Before  taking  up  their  residence  in 
the  Lake  District,  the  two  poets  had  put  out  the  epoch-mark- 
ing book  usually  named  as  the  beginning  of  the  "  Romantic 
Triumph."     Lyrical  Ballads  may  well  have  taken  the  critics 


Wordsworth  at  the  Age  of  Forty- 
eight. 

After  a  crayon  sketch  by  Haydon. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    227 

unawares.'  Wordsworth  had  previously  pubhshed  two  slender 
volumes,  Coleridge,  four ;  but  none  of  these  had  attracted 
attention.  In  Lyrical  Ballade  editors  and  reviewers  found  a 
strange,  unheard-of  gathering  of  things  that  set  at  defiance 
the  whole  body  of  "  established  rules  "   in   poetry.     There 


Dove  Cottage.   ,  ' 

From  the  garden. 

was  a  mysterious  story  in  verse  about  a  sailor  who  took  a  voy- 
age on  which  he  had  the  most  amazing  experiences.  Then 
there  was  a  poem  called  Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above 
Tintern  Abbey,  in  which  the  author  went  into  details  about  the 
changes  in  his  own  attitude  toward  nature.  "  This  will  never 
do,"  said  the  critics,  "  because  we  have  never  heard  of  such 
things  in  poetry,  and  therefore  they  are  clearly  improper." 


228 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Wordsworth's  "Preface."  —  One  who  has  read  even  the 
brief  account  of  Romanticism  given  above  will  easily  imagine 
the  author's  attitude  toward  this  criticism.  In  1800  a  second 
edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads  appeared,  with  a  long  preface  by 

Wordsworth  explaining 
in  the  calmest  fashion 
why  the  new  poetry 
must  be  accepted  and 
highly  valued.  He 
had  deliberately  chosen 
humble  life,  ordinary 
men,  in  ordinary  situa- 
tions, for  his  themes ; 
and  he  had  deliberately 
chosen  the  language  of 
everyday  life.  These 
are  proper  subjects  for 
poetry,  he  said,  and 
this  is  the  proper  way 
to  set  them  forth.  And 
though    it    cannot    be 

Dorothy  Wordsworth.  '^ 

lived  up  to  the  standard 

set, by  himself,  he  never   once   wavered   in   his   faith   and 

his  effort. 


To  Dove  Cottage,  Grasmere.  —  In  December,  1799, 
Wordsworth  and  Dorothy  moved  to  Grasmere,  "  truly  and 
vitally,  biographically  and  spiritually,  as  well  as  scenically 
and  physically,  the  center  of  the  Lake  District."  In  this 
village  the  poet  made  his  home  for  thirteen  years,  for 
eight  of  them  in  Dove  Cottage.  This  little  house,  like  the 
Shakspere    birthplace    and  other   "  shrines,"    is    now    the 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    229 

property  of   the   nation,    and   is    maintained  as  a  sort  of 
museum. 


The  Poet's  Tributes  to  his  Sister.  —  We  cannot  leave 
this  move  in  the  poet's  life  without  some  words  about  Dorothy 
Wordsworth.  His  only  sister,  two  years  younger  than  he, 
she  had  been  his  most  favored  companion  from  childhood. 
After  being  separated  from  him  during  his  Hawkshead  and 
Cambridge  days  and  during  his  post-graduate  year  in  France, 
she  set  up  with  him 
the  modest  home  in 
southern  England  to 
which  we  have  referred. 
Her  influence  at  this 
period,  when  disap- 
pointment at  the  course 
of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion seemed  likely  to 
end  his  poetic  career 
when  hardly  begun,  was 
great  and  salutary.  Of 
many  verse  tributes  by 
Wordsworth  to  his  sis- 
ter one  of  the  most 
striking  is  in  book  XII 
of  The  Prelude  :  Mrs.  Wordsworth. 

"Her  very  presence  such  a  sweetness  breathed, 
That  flowers,  and  trees,  and  even  the  silent  hills, 
And  everything  she  looked  on,  should  have  had 
An  intimation  how  she  bore  herself 
Towards  them  and  to  all  creatures.     God  delights 
In  such  a  being ;  for  her  common  thoughts 
Are  piety,  her  life  is  gratitude." 


1 

n 

.....i^Mk     1 

mm 

230  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Marriage.  —  A  few  years  after  moving  to  Grasmere,  Words- 
worth married  Mary  Hutchinson,  whom  he  described  as 

"A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light." 

His  devotion  to  wife  and  sister  was  amply  deserved;  for  it 
is  truly  said  that  they  "  worshipped  him  and  made  his  happi- 
ness the  object  of  their  lives." 

The  Poet's  Best  Period.  —  The  greater  portion  of  Words- 
worth's best  poetry  was  composed  at  Dove  Cottage,  much 
of  it  in  the  garden  : 

"Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  has  ever  found." 

Here,  before  1801,  he  wrote  Michael,  Ode  on  Intimations  of 
Immortality,  Ode  to  Duty,  To  a  Sky-Lark,  and  numerous  other 
bird-  and  flower-lyrics,  many  of  his  best  sonnets,  and  The 
Prelude.  Though  he  wrote  voluminously  almost  to  the  end 
of  his  life,  there  are  few  poems  after  1808  equal  to  those  of 
the  Grasmere  period. 

Full  Recognition.  —  In  1813  the  poet  made  his  last  change 
of  residence  —  to  Rydal  Mount,  near  the  hamlet  of  Rydal, 
about  four  miles  from  Grasmere.  Here  he  spent  the  last 
thirty-seven  years  of  his  life,  writing  in  the  same  key  as  in  his 
earlier  compositions,  strangely  unaffected  by  the  -many  new 
exhibitions  of  the  Romantic  spirit,  or  by  the  modern  scien- 
tific spirit.  Recognition  of  him  as  the  "  first  of  living  poets  " 
seems  to  have  become  general  even  before  government  so 
described  him  in  offering  the  laureateship.  Nearly  all  his 
old  friends  remained  stanch,  and  many  great  men  of  the 
day  were  added  to  the  circle. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    231 


Rewards.  —  For  many  years  Wordsworth  was  never 
financially  at  ease.  The  returns  from  his  poetry  formed  a 
meagre  addition  to  the  income  from  his  legacy,  though  this 
was  somewhat  increased  later  by  a  share  of  his  father's  es- 
tate. The  move  to  the  more  spacious  and  attractive  home 
of  Rydal  Mount  was 
made  possible  by  his 
appointment  as  dis- 
tributor of  stamps  for 
Westmoreland,  with  a 
salary  of  £400  a  year. 
In  1842  a  pension  was 
given  to  him.  Honors 
not  of  a  financial  order 
came  to  him,  including 
degrees  from  Durham 
and  Oxford. 


Wordsworth's  Self- 
suflficiency.  —  Although 
Wordsworth  lived  eigh- 
teen years  beyond  the 
date  given  as  ending 
the  Age  of  Romanticism, 


WOHDSWOKTH  WALKING  ON  HeLVELLYN. 

After  the  portrait  made  by  Haydon 
when  the  poet  was  seventy-two. 


he  was,  as  has  been  said,  little  affected  by  the  changes 
taking  place  around  him.  He  did,  it  is  true,  lose  much 
of  his  radicalism.  His  acceptance  of  the  laureateship  con- 
vinced many  that  he  had  turned  his  back  on  his  early 
principles  and  become  a  conservative.  What  really  hap- 
pened was  that  the  immense  step  forward  which  he  took 
in  Lyrical  Ballads  and  the  prefaces  to  the  second  and  sub- 
sequent editions  of  that  work  was  all  he  was  capable  of. 
An  observant  visitor  to  Rydal  Mount  recorded  the  apparent 


232 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


fact  that  other  men  did  not  seem  necessary  to  him.  Legouis, 
Wordsworth's  French  biographer,  says  that  books  seemed 
equally  unnecessary  to  him :  "  He  gives  us  the  impression 
that,  had  he  Hved  alone  on  a  bookless  earth,  he  would  have 
reached  the  same  conclusions."  He  reached  the  point 
where  his  own  poetry  sufficed  for  his  artistic  life ;   and  other 


notes  round  no  responsive  chor 

d  m  him. 

1 

JMfe 

yH 

■HT  i  ' 

■    M 

y]S    . 

'\^" 

\.'  ''  * 

-                "^ 

^sr*-*-, 

^•Si?*^ 

Rydal  Mount. 
Wordsworth's  last  home. 

Poems  of  Humble  Life.  —  One  of  the  fields  in  which  the 
poet  gave  notable  expression  to  the  spirit  of  revolt  is  poems 
of  humble  life.  The  little  cottage  girl  of  We  are  Seven,  the 
leech-gatherer  in  Resolution  and  Independence,  the  old  shep- 
herd in  the  pathetic  story  of  Michael,  and  many  similar 
figures  are  Wordsworth's  deliberate  defiance  of  tradition, 
of  the  so-called  "  established  rules  "  by  which,  said  his 
critics,  poetry  had  been  written  time  out  of  mind,  and  ought 
still  to  be  written.     He  chose  this  kind  of  life,  he  said,  "  be- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    233 

cause,  in  that  condition,  the  essential  passions  of  the  heart 
find  a  better  soil  in  which  they  can  attain  their  maturity ; 
and  because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are  incor- 
porated with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  nature." 

Sonnets.  —  Another  mark  of  the  Romanticist  in  Words- 
worth is  his  fondness  for  the  sonnet-form,  which  had  been 


V 

m 

^^  •  ^H 

^ 

.      1^        r' 

Grisedale  Tarn. 

A  most  impressive  mountain  view  near  Grasmere ;    locally  known  as 
the  parting-place  of  Wordsworth  and  his  brother  John. 

almost  wholly  ignored  for  the  century  and  a  quarter  since 
Milton.  Many  sonnets  of  his  later  years,  as  well  as  a  few 
of  his  earlier,  we  could  spare :  those  either  on  trivial  subjects, 
or  on  brief  mental  states  that  do  not  seem  worth  recording. 
There  remain,  however,  a  larger  number  of  sonnets  of  the 
first  order  than  can  be  found  in  any  other  English  poet. 
Many  of  these,  —  the  sonnet  on  Milton  (London,  1802), 
those  on  the  sonnet  itself  ("  Scorn  not  the  sonnet,"  and 
*'  Nuns  fret  not  "),  Composed  on  Westminster  Bridge  ("  Earth 


234  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  "),  "  The  world  is  too 
much  with  us  "  —  the  hst  might  be  largely  extended  with 
ease  —  these  rank  not  only  among  the  very  best  of  the 
author's  poems,  but  among  the  greatest  English  poems  as 
well. 

Poems  of  Nature.  —  It  is  to  his  work  as  poet  of  nature 
that  Wordsworth  chiefly  owes  his  general  fame.  There 
had,  of  course,  been  numerous  poets  who  had  loved  and  de- 
scribed natural  objects  and  scenes;  even  the  eighteenth 
century  was  not  entirely  without  them.  Other  nature  poets 
had  been  capable  also  of  faithful,  accurate  description.  The 
new,  that  is,  the  Romantic,  element  in  Wordsworth's  nature 
poetry  is  the  expression  in  words  of  sensations  aroused  by 
observation  of  the  beauties  of  the  external  world.  This 
individual  interpretation  of  nature,  even  if  something  like 
it  had  before  occurred  to  poets,  had  not  found  voice. 

"The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 
Ptoteets  the  hngering  dew-drop  from  the  sun." 

Lines  to  a  Child. 

"For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee." 

To  the  Daisy. 

"There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 
In  that  song  of  thine ; 
Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky." 

To  a  Sky-Lark. 

Almost  his  whole  philosophy  of  nature  is  summed  up  in  this 
stanza  from  The  Tables  Turned : 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    235 

"One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can." 

Arnold's  Adequate  Tribute.  —  Of  the  many  tributes 
called  forth  by  Wordsworth's  death  two  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful came  from  Matthew  Arnold,  a  young  poet  whose  admira- 


The  Wordsworth  Graves. 
In  Grasmere  churchyard. 

tion  for  the  old  poet  had  brought  him  to  the  vicinity  of  Rydal 
to  live.     In  one  of  these  Arnold  says  : 

"Well  may  we  mourn  when  the  head 
Of  a  sacred  poet  lies  low, 
In  an  age  which  can  rear  them  no  more  I 
The  complaining  millions  of  men 
Darken  in  labor  and  pain ; 
But  he  was  a  priest  to  us  all 
Of  the  wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world, 


236  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Which  we  saw  with  his  eyes  and  were  glad. 
He  is  dead,  and  the  fruit-bearing  day 
Of  his  race  is  past  on  the  earth ; 
And  darkness  retiirns  to  our  eyes." 

The  other  concludes : 

"Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave 
O  Rotha.i  with  thy  living  wave ! 
Sing  him  thy  best !   for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone." 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE,    1772-1834 

In  Lamb's  Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years  Ago 
is  drawn  a  picture  of  Coleridge  when  a  boy  at  school.  He 
early  showed  the  interest  in  philosophic  studies  that  made 
him  as  a  man  a  deep  thinker  and  close  reasoner.  He 
loved  his  Greek  studies,  and  impressed  all  hearers  by  his 
reading  of  Homer  and  Pindar.  So  strongly  did  his  personal- 
ity attract  people  that  he  was  known  as  the  "  inspired  charity 
boy." 

Character  of  his  Father.  —  He  was  born  at  Ottery  St. 
Mary,  Devonshire,  the  youngest  of  thirteen  children.  His 
studious  bent  was  inherited  from  his  father,  who  was  minister 
of  the  town,  head-master  of  the  grammar  school,  and  a  solid 
scholar.  "  The  image  of  my  father,"  the  son  wrote,  "  my 
revered,  kind,  learned,  simple-hearted  father,  is  a  religion 
to  me." 

At  Christ's  Hospital.  —  After  the  father's  death,  and 
before  his  own  tenth  year,  Samuel  Taylor  was  admitted  to 
Christ's  Hospital,  the  charity-school  immortalized  by  Lamb, 
who  also  entered  the  school  on  the  same  day.     His  intellectual 

'  The  stream  flowing  through  Grasmere,  close  to  the  churchyard  where 
Wordsworth  is  buried. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    237 


powers  and  personal  attractions  impressed -all,  just  as  they 
did  when  he  reached  manhood.  The  hardships  of  the  school, 
including  an  insufficient  supply  of  food,  were  galling  to  him ; 
but  the  close  friendships  he  formed,  and  the  opportunities 
London  offered  for  studying  life,  served  to  lessen  his  resent- 
ment of  conditions. 

Cambridge.  —  From  Christ's  Hospital  he  went  (on  a 
scholarship)  to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  Entering  the 
year  that  Wordsworth  was  grad- 
uated from  St.  John's,  Cole- 
ridge kept  up  a  connection  with 
the  college  for  three  years ;  but 
he  was  very  irregular  in  attend- 
ance, and  did  not  take  a  degree. 
While  at  the  university,  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of 
Wordsworth,  not  in  person,  but 
in  the  volume  of  Descriptive 
Sketches.  Coleridge  was  enthu- 
siastic over  it.  "  Seldom  if 
ever,"  he  says,  "  was  the  emer- 
gence of  an  original  genius 
above  the  literary  horizon  more 
evidently  announced."  Perhaps  Wordsworth  was  thinking 
of  this  sentence  when  in  later  years  he  said  of  Coleridge : 

[Thou]  "in  thy  ample  mind 
Hast  placed  me  high  above  my  just  deserts." 

Marriage.  —  About  the  time  when  Coleridge  left  the  uni- 
versity, he  met  Robert  Southey,  a  meeting  which  had  two 
immediate  results,  one  of  passing,  the  other  of  lasting,  im- 
portance. The  first  was  Coleridge's  joining  in  a  fantastic 
scheme  for  emigrating  to  America  and  founding  on  the  banks 


Coleridge. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-six. 


238 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


of  the  Susquehanna  a  Pantisocraey,  or  all-equal  government. 
The  scheme  fell  through  for  lack  of  funds  and  emigrants. 
The  second  result  was  Coleridge's  engagement  and  marriage 
to  Miss  Sara  Fricker,  to  whose  sister  Southey  was  already 
engaged.  Mrs.  Coleridge  seems  to  have  been  an  unsuitable 
wife  for  an  artist,  even  for  a  reliable  one ;  that  she  was  en- 
tirely unfit  to  be  the  wife  of  an  erratic,  unreliable  poet  was 
certain.     Her  life  with  her  husband  from  1795  to  1804  was 

unhappy  for  him  as  well 
as  for  her ;  and  though 
no  formal  separation 
took  place,  they  saw 
little  of  each  other  after 
1804. 

Friendship  with  the 
Wordsworths.  —  Cole- 
ridge's acquaintance 
with  the  Wordsworths 
has  been  recorded.  If 
the  older,  steadier  poet 
profited  by  his  friend's 
enthusiastic  admiration,  the  latter  also  gained  by  the  asso- 
ciation. Through  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Coleridge  came 
to  a  realization  of  his  powers,  and  without  their  influence. 
The  Ancient  Manner  — and  perhaps  much  more  of  both 
prose  and  verse  —  would  hardly  have  been  written.  Virtu- 
ally all  of  Coleridge's  best  poems  were  written  during  the 
six  years  of  his  greatest  intimacy  with  the  Wordsworths 
(1797-1803);  and  his  acquaintance  with  German  meta- 
physics, which  through  him  did  much  for  English  thought, 
was  due  to  a  tour  of  Germany  made  with  the  Words- 
worths. 


Dove  Cottage  Living-Room. 

Here  Coleridge  delivered  some  of  his  most 

impassioned  midnight  discourses  to  a  small 

audience  of  Wordsworths. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    239 

The  Influence  of  Opium. — The  year  1797  is  a  tragic  one  in 
Coleridge's  life ;  for  in  that  year  he  began  the  use  of  opium. 
For  twenty  years,  while  he  was  writing  his  best  poetry 
and  his  best  criticism,  he  engaged  in  a  constant  struggle, 
frequently  a  losing  one,  with  the  drug.  It  prevented  his 
working  consecutively  at  anything,  prevented  his  carrying 
out  any  plans.  "  An  opium-eater,"  said  De  Quincey,  another 
victim  of  the  habit,  "  never  finishes  anything."  Coleridge 
for  several  periods  worked  at  journalism  in  London,  but 
formed  no  permanent  connection.  He  was  for  more  than 
a  year  secretary  to  the  governor  of  Malta.  He  frequently 
preached  in  Unitarian  churches,  and  aroused  great  enthusi- 
asm ;  but  only  for  a  single  period  of  a  few  months  did  he 
hold  a  charge.  He  was  a  most  inspiring  lecturer;  but 
he  could  never  be  depended  on  to  speak  on  the  subject 
announced :  people  went  to  hear  Coleridge,  not  on  any 
particular  subject.  He  was  quite  likely,  after  announcing 
Paradise  Lost  as  his  topic,  to  speak  on  Hamlet. 

Under  such  conditions,  his  income  was,  of  course,  uncer- 
tain. For  some  years  he  lived  in  the  house  of  his  prosperous 
brother-in-law,  Southey;  and  after  the  separation  from  his 
wife,  she  and  her  children  remained  there.  Writing  and 
lecturing  sometimes  paid  well ;  and  many  homes  sought  his 
presence  as  guest. 

At  Highgate.  —  In  1816,  after  fighting  the  fiend  opium 
single-handed  for  twenty  years  and  finding  victory  impos- 
sible without  help,  Coleridge  put  himself  under  the  care  of 
a  Dr.  Gilman,  of  Highgate,  a  suburb  of  London.  The  af- 
flicted man  was  taken  into  the  physician's  home ;  and  to  the 
devoted  care  of  the  physician  and  Mrs.  Gilman  he  owed  the 
comparative  peace  which  he  enjoyed  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life.     He  delivered  several  successful  series  of  lectures; 


240  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  with  a  group  of  young  enthusiasts  who  repeatedly 
sought  him  at  his  home  he  carried  on  many  wonderful  con- 
versations. The  talk  of  the  "  Sage  of  Highgate  "  made  a 
deep  impression  on  all  hearers,  a  situation  not  surprising 
when  one  contemplates  the  vast  extent  of  his  reading  and 
the  widely  recorded  charm  of  his  personality. 

Last  Years  and  Death.  —  For  several  years  Coleridge 
knew  death  was  near  at  hand.  He  felt  that  he  was  not  fully 
appreciated ;  he  suffered  physically  sometimes ;  but  he  faced 
the  end  without  a  murmur.  Some  months  before  it  came 
he  wrote  an  epitaph  for  himself,  containing  these  lines : 

"O,  lift  one  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C.  — 
That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath 
Found  death  in  Ufa  may  here  find  life  in  death! " 

He  died  July  25,  1834,  and  was  buried  in  Highgate  church- 
yard. 

The  Poet.  —  Nearly  all  Coleridge's  really  great  poetry, 
as  has  been  noted,  was  written  during  the  years  when  he  was 
under  the  Wordsworths'  influence.  One  may  go  further : 
nearly  all  for  which  the  world  cares,  including  The  Ancient 
Mariner,  the  fragment  Kuhla  Khan,  and  part  first  of  Christ- 
abel  (never  finished),  was  written  in  a  single  winter,  1797-1798, 
his  "  golden  year."  In  the  one  complete  poem  and  the  two  un- 
finished, Coleridge  showed  himself  the  possessor  of  a  marvel- 
lous imagination  and  a  power  of  haunting  phraseology  which, 
under  better  circumstances,  might  have  made  him  the  equal 
of  England's  greatest  singers.  The  product  is,  however,  too 
meagre  to  give  the  writer  a  large  place  in  English  poetry. 

The  Critic.  —  Coleridge's  literary  criticism  is  both  greater 
in  quantity  and  far  more  valuable  than  his  poetry.  He  is 
the  founder  of  modern  English  criticism,  as  regards  not  only 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    241 

method,  but  also,  in  many  cases,  substance.  To  Coleridge 
is  due  the  present-day  opinion  of  Shakspere,  by  which  the 
dramatist  is  understood  to  be  a  conscious  and  consummate 
artist  instead  of  merely  "  Fancy's  child."  To  Coleridge  is 
due  the  current  interpretation  of  Othello,  as  "  a  high  and 
chivalrous  Moorish  chief,"  whose  passion  is  not  jealousy. 


9Lx<  4^^^    s;%Ua    ^*&fy^^  <*.«*<. x^   ifc.  i^c^^ 

J^a  ncc  M.  /i<^j,  ax:^  fzz,  ^^  ^^  ,?C_ 


Facsimile  of  Coleridge's  Manuscript. 
(British  Museum.) 

but  "  rather  an  agony  that  the  creature  whom  he  had  believed 
angelic  should  be  proved  impure."  To  Coleridge  also  was 
due  the  first  thorough  study  and  genuine  appreciation  of 
Wordsworth's  genius. 

The  Talker.  —  Much  of  his  philosophical  writing  is  diffi- 
cult reading,   and   because   of  his   unsystematic   habits   of 


242  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

composition,  unsatisfactory.  His  philosophical  talk,  how- 
ever, to  the  group  of  young  enthusiasts  who  hung  on  his 
words  at  Highgate  —  Lamb,  De  Quincey,  Carlyle,  Hazlitt, 
and  others  —  was  beyond  measure  inspiring.  Hazlitt  has 
described  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  first  sermon 
he  heard  Coleridge  preach. 

"Mr.  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out  his  text,  'And  he  went 
up  into  the  mountain,  to  pray,  himself,  alone.'  As  he  gave  out 
this  text,  his  voice  'rose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distilled  perfumes,' 
and  when  he  came  to  the  two  last  words,  which  he  pronounced 
loud,  deep,  and  distinct,  it  seemed  to  me,  who  was  then  young, 
as  if  the  sounds  had  echoed  from  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart, 
and  as  if  that  prayer  might  have  floated  in  solemn  silence  through 
the  universe.  .  .  .  The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  sub- 
ject, like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  .  .  .  And  for  myself, 
I  could  not  have  been  more  delighted  if  I  had  heard  the  music 
of  the  spheres." 

Personal  Influence.  —  That  his  talk  was  frequently  not 
consecutive,  not  logical,  seems  certain ;  yet  his  influence 
has  been  far  greater  than  that  of  many  whose  thoughts 
were  presented  in  much  better  organized  form.  In  1796 
Wordsworth  thought  Coleridge  "  the  only  wonderful  man 
I  ever  met ;  "  in  1827  Carlyle  called  him  "  a  sublime  man 
...  a  king  of  men."  In  the  opinion  of  Saintsbury  he  was 
the  most  important  figure  in  the  Romantic  movement  in 
England,  whose  personal  influence  on  the  greatest  minds  of 
his  own  day  "  was  so  great  as  to  be  almost  uncanny." 

GEORGE    NOEL    GORDON,    LORD    BYRON,    1788-1824 

Ancestry.  —  Byron,  one  of  the  most  rebellious  figures  in 
a  rebellious  age,  was  made  extreme  not  so  much  by  the 
spirit  that  was  abroad  in  the  land  as  by  inheritance  and 
immediate  environment.     He  was  of  wild,  impulsive,  passion- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    243 

ate,  defiant  blood  on  both  sides :    on  his  father's  side  in  a 
distinguished  but  erratic  Hne  of  Norman  nobility;    on  his 
mother's,    Highland    Scotch    direct    from    James    I.     His 
mother,  to  whose  sole  care 
he  was  left  at  the  age  of 
two,  was  unsuited  to  be  the 
mother  of  any  child.     She 
alternately  fondled  him  ex- 
cessively and  abused   and 
maltreated  him,  thus  em- 
phasizing  his  inborn  high 
temper. 

Lack  of  Sjntnpathy  with 
the  World. — Though  many 
admired  Byron's  genius, 
few  understood  him.  Few 
recognized  or  acted  on  the 
principle  expressed  by  one 
of  the  poet's  schoolmasters, 
that  he  "  might  be  led  by 
a  silken  string,  rather  than 

a  cable."  People  antagonized  him;  events  embittered  him. 
As  a  result,  he  wrote  before  he  was  thirty  and  with  apparent 
sincerity : 

"I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me; 

*  *  *  4i  *  *  * 

'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose ; "  ^ 

and  followed  this  a  few  years  later  with 

"Through  Ufa's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragged  to  three  and  thirty ; 


Byron. 


'  Childe  Harold,  Canto  III. 


244 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


What  have  these  years  brought  to  me? 
Nothing  —  except  thirty-three." 

Birth.  —  Byron  was  born  in  London.  His  father,  Captain 
Jack  Byron,  was  an  adventurer  who,  after  marrying  Cath- 
erine Gordon  and  squandering  her  small  fortune,  left  her  with 
her  two-year-old  son  and  fled  to  France.  The  boy's  club- 
foot added  sensitiveness  to  the  unfortunate  inherited  qualities 
we  have  mentioned. 

Boyhood.  —  Besides  the  varying  treatment  by  his  mother, 
and  the  distresses  growing  out  of  his  affliction,  the  outstand- 
ing facts  of  his  boyhood 
are  his  extensive  reading, 
his  love  affairs,  and  his  in- 
heritance of  a  title  and 
estate.  The  list  of  books 
he  had  read  before  he  was 
nineteen  includes  enormous 
amounts  of  history,  biog- 
raphy, philosophy,  theol- 
ogy, oratory,  fiction ;  and 
poetry  without  limit.  Of 
the  love  affairs  the  most 
serious  was  with  Mary 
Anne  Chaworth,  heiress 
of  the  estate  adjoining 
Byron's.  "  She  was  the  beau  ideal,"  said  he,  "  of  all  that 
my  youthful  fancy  could  paint  of  beautiful ;  "  but  she  re- 
turned neither  the  admiration  nor  the  affection.  Though 
grieved  at  the  time,  he  said  later  in  life  that  her  perfection 
he  "  created  in  her,  ...  for  I  found  her  anything  but  angelic." 
At  the  age  of  ten  he  succeeded  his  great-uncle  as  "  Lord  " 
Byron  and  heir  of  Newstead  Abbey. 


Miss  Chaworth. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    245 

Education.  —  The  chief  thing  that  his  years  at  Harrow 
School  gave  him  was  the  friendship  of  Dr.  Drury,  the  master. 
From  Harrow  he  went  up  to  Cambridge,  where  he  was  grad- 
uated in  March,  1808.  He  was  not  popular  at  the  Univer- 
sity, and  never  thought  of  it  with  affection. 


Newstead  Abbey. 
Byron's  home  in  Nottinghamshire. 

First  Publication.  —  The  year  before  he  left  Cambridge 
(1807)  Byron  published  his  first  volume,  Hours  of  Idleness. 
It  was  an  unpretending  book,  containing  only  one  poem 
worth  remembering  —  Lachin  y  Gair;  ^  but  the  Edinburgh 
Review  could  not  forego  the  opportunity  to  thrash  a  lord. 
It  performed  this  feat  in  an  article  which  characteristically 
enough  aimed  not  at  all  at  estimating  the  new  poet,  but  at 
adding  to  the  critic's  reputation  for  cleverness.  Wordsworth 
1  Pronounced  Loch  na  Garr. 


246  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

knew  better :  "  These  reviewers  put  me  out  of  patience. 
The  young  man  will  do  something,  if  he  goes  on  as  he  has 
begun." 

First  Satire.  —  The  young  man  went  on  next  year  by 
returning  the  thrashing.  In  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers he  not  only  came  back  at  his  critic,  but  included  in  a 
scathing  satire  most  of  the  distinguished  men  of  letters  of 
the  day.     Wordsworth  is  represented  as 

"Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane." 

Jeffrey,  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  is  compared  to  the 
savage  judge  of  James  the  Second's  "  Star  Chamber :  " 

"In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just. 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resigned  his  trust, 
And  given  the  spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters,  as  he  sentenced  men." 

He  realized  his  error,  and  a  few  years  later  made  a  public 
apology.  "  This  satire,"  he  says,  "  was  written  when  I  was 
very  young  and  very  angry,  and  fully  bent  on  displaying  my 
wrath  and  my  wit ;  and  now  I  am  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
my  wholesale  assertions." 

"Childe,  Harold."  — In  February,  1812,  the  first  two 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold  appeared.  Its  instantaneous  suc- 
cess is  recorded  in  a  well-known  sentence  of  the  author: 
"  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself  famous."  Seven 
editions  were  sold  in  four  weeks ;  he  was  lauded  and  flattered 
by  men  and  women  prominent  in  all  walks  of  life.  Nothing 
could  better  illustrate  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Childe  Harold 
is  a  rambling,  disconnected  series  of  magnificent  pictures 
of  foreign  lands  and  peoples ;  and  the  novelty  of  such  matter 
in  verse  caught  the  public  taste  at  once.     It  was,  moreover, 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    247 

in  an  unusual  metre,  the  Spenserian  stanza,  which  we  have 
seen  had  been  revived  in  one  eighteenth-century  poem, 
Thomson's  The  Castle  of  Indolence.  A  third  respect  in  which 
it  illustrates  the  spirit  of  the  age  is  its  note  of  revolt,  against 
every  convention  of  British  life :  a  note  which  in  the  preced- 
ing century  would  have  prevented  the  poem  from  receiving 
even  a  respectful  hearing. 


^  ^— ^...^ 


y^^^^^^  /^^/^ 


'7 


y<^/^v 


^y^^t/ ^n^ 


Facsimile  of  Byron's  Manuscript. 
(British  Museum.) 

Two  more  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  which  appeared  in 
1818,  are  even  greater  poetry  than  the  first  two.  Canto 
III  contains  what  is  perhaps  the  most  famous  passage  in  all 
Byron's  verse  —  the  description  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
and  of  Brussels  on  the  evening  before  —  beginning 
"There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night." 

Oriental  Tales.  —  In  the  interval  between  the  first  two 
cantos  and  the  last  two  B^Ton  wrote  a  number  of  oriental 


248 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


tales  in  verse,  of  which  the  best  known  are  The  Bride  o/ 
Abydos  and  Mazeppa.  In  these  the  spirit  of  revolt  continues 
to  find  expression ;  and  the  newness  of  the  subjects  and  the 
rapid  and  thriUing  stories  brought  them  a  wide  circle  of 
readers.  Of  The  Corsair,  which  was  written  in  ten  days, 
14,000  copies  were  sold  in  a  single  day ;  and  the  poet  received 

a  total  of  £525  for  it. 

Marriage  and  Exile. 
—  Byron  was  married 
in  1815 ;  and  his  wife 
left  him  in  a  year. 
Whether  the  trouble 
was  altogether  of  his 
making  is  by  no  means 
clear;  but  the  British 
public  took  Lady 
Byron's  side,  and  de- 
posed its  idol  promptly 
and  absolutely.  Self- 
exiled,  he  left  England 
in  April,  1816,  never  to  return.  The  evil  genius  to  which 
he  owed  his  ancestry  and  his  afflicted  body  was  loath  to 
give  him  up. 

Death.  —  For  the  rest  of  his  life  he  was  a  wanderer  in 
Europe.  The  facts  of  this  period  we  would  like  to  forget, 
except  the  closing  episode.  In  1823  he  cast  his  lot  with  the 
Greeks  in  their  struggle  for  independence  of  Turkey,  giving 
largely  of  his  wealth,  taking  active  service  in  the  army,  and 
dying  April  19,  1824,  of  fever  contracted  by  exposure. 

In  the  period  of  his  exile  Byron  wrote  The  Prisoner  of 
Chilian,  a  number  of  quite  unactable  but  highly  poetic  dramas, 


HucKNALL  Church,  near  Newstead. 

Denied  a  place  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
Byron  was  buried  here. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    249 

Mazeppa  (one  of  the  oriental  tales),  and  Jiis  masterpiece  — 
Don  J-uan.^ 

"  Don  Juan."  —  Don  Juan  is  a  poem  of  the  same  general 
class  as  Childe  Harold;  that  is,  it  is  a  rambling,  disjointed 
series  of  pictures  and  incidents  from  experience  in  foreign 
lands.  It  is  much  longer  than  its  predecessor,  and  was  left 
unfinished  in  the  seventeenth  canto.  It  is  much  more  bitter 
in  its  satire,  and  much  more  universal.  Its  tone  is  well 
characterized  in  the  author's  words :  "  In  Don  Juan  I  take 
a  vicious  and  unprincipled  character,  and  lead  him  through 
those  ranks  of  society  whose  accomplishments  cover  and 
cloak  their  vices,  and  paint  the  natural  effects."  Here  we  see 
the  same  spirit  of  revolt  as  in  Childe  Harold,  taking  the  form 
of  a  protest  against  the  whole  social  organization  of  his  day. 

Don  Juan  is  a  very  uneven  poem.  There  are  beautiful 
idyls  and  charming  lyrics  —  the  story  of  Haidee,  for  instance, 
in  Canto  IV,  and 

"The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung ! " 

Scattered  among  such  as  these  are  episodes  and  stanzas 
deliberately  vulgar,  which  in  the  eyes  of  British  "  middle- 
class  respectability  "  could  not  be  atoned  for  by  any  amount 
of  art.  Poet  Laureate  Southey,  and  Wellington,  hero  of 
Waterloo,  are  attacked  in  satire  that  can  only  be  described, 
as  vicious.  Even  his  mother  and  his  wife,  of  whom  it  might 
be  supposed  he  would  think  with  sincere  regret,  are  held  up 
to  ridicule,  as  is  (in  the  later  cantos)  the  whole  of  that  Lon- 
don fashionable  life  of  which  he  had  been  at  one  time  the 
centre.  The  instalments  of  the  poem  were  not  received 
with  the  universal  favor  that  greeted  Childe  Harold.     The 

»  Byron  rhymes  this  name  with  "true  one." 


260 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


average  Briton  was  too  much  shocked  by  its  audacity  to 
enjoy  its  brilliancy.  The  critics,  however,  were  almost 
unanimous  in  praise  of  it,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  for  example, 
writing :  "  It  has  the  variety  of  Shakespeare  himself."  An- 
other said  that  Don  Juan  will  be  read  "  as  long  as  satire,  wit, 
mirth,   and   supreme   excellence  shall   be  esteemed   among 


men. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY.    1792-1822 

A  Reformer.  —  Shelley  was,  like  Byron,  a  rebel  against 
society,  as  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  had  been  rebels  against 

literary  tradition.  Unlike  Byron, 
Shelley  was  inspired  to  reform 
society,  though  his  plans  to 
accomplish  this  reform  are  quite 
incoherent  and  unintelligible. 

A  Lyric  Poet.  —  On  the  side 
of  pure  literature,  Shelley  is  one 
of  a  small  number  of  supreme 
lyrists.  The  list  of  his  great 
compositions  in  the  lyric  field  is 
not  extensive ;  but  even  the  least 
sympathetic  students  of  his  life 
and  philosophy  admit  his  su- 
premacy as  lyric  poet. 

Birth,  School,  and  College.  — 

He  was  born  near  Horsham,  in 

Sussex,  some  thirty  miles  south 

of    London,    four    years    after 

Byron.     The   two,    it   will   thus   be   seen,    came   nearly   a 

generation  later  than  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge ;    and  as 

has  been  observed  more  than  once,  the  French  Revolution 


Shelley. 

Clearly  the  portrait  of  a 
dreamer. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    251 

was  already  history.  At  the  age  of  twelve  Shelley  was  sent 
to  Eton,  where  his  rebellious  spirit  first  showed  itself  in 
opposition  to  the  fagging  system.  From  Eton  he  proceeded 
to  University  College,  Oxford,  where  he  remained  less  than 
a  year,  being  formally  expelled  from  the  institution.  This 
untoward  incident  was  caused  by  a  specific  act  of  rebellion 
—  refusal  to  answer  the  question  of  the  college  authorities 
whether  he  did  or  did  not  write  a  pamphlet  called  The  Neces- 
sity of  Atheism.  He  did,  in  fact,  write  it,  as  the  whole  col- 
lege doubtless  knew. 

Marriage.  —  Shelley's  father,  an  entirely  orthodox  Brit- 
isher, was  so  much  offended  by  this  performance  that  he 
closed  his  doors  against  his  nineteen-year-old  son.  Shelley 
took  up  residence  in  London.  Part  of  the  time  he  received 
a  small  allowance  from  his  father ;  part  of  the  time  he  is  said 
to  have  been  supported  by  the  pocket-money  of  his  sisters, 
who  were  at  school  in  a  suburb.  In  visits  to  his  sisters  he  met 
Harriet  Westbrook,  a  girl  of  sixteen ;  and  in  a  short  time  they 
eloped  to  Edinburgh  and  were  married.  That  Shelley  did 
not  love  the  girl  is  by  no  means  clear ;  but  his  chief  incentives 
to  the  marriage  appear  to  have  been  sympathy  -with  her 
(real  or  imagined)  harsh  treatment  at  home,  and  admiration 
of  her  willingness  to  come  and  live  with  him  whether  married 
or  not. 

Again  a  Rebel.  —  Thus  again  the  spirit  of  rebellion  plays 
an  important  part  in  Shelley's  life.  Harriet  suffered  from 
tyranny  at  home;  he  abhorred  tyranny;  he  would  rescue 
her  from  it.  Harriet  loved  him  enough  to  defy  the  conven- 
tions of  society,  a  sure  title  to  at  least  the  good  opinion  of 
a  man  like  Shelley. 

It  is  quite  useless  to  record  in  detail  the  wanderings  of 
the    Shelleys  —  in    York,    Edinburgh,    Keswick,    Ireland, 


252 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Wales.     In  April,  1813,  they  were  again  in  London,  where  in 
June  a  daughter  was  born. 

A  short  time  after  this  Shelley  and  his  wife  became  es- 
tranged ;  and  the  following  year  they  separated.  When  she 
died,  in  1816,  Shelley  married  Mary  Godwin,  daughter  of 

William  Godwin, 
whose  writings  in 
criticism  of  social 
institutions,  in- 
cluding marriage, 
Shelley  greatly 
admired. 

Life  in  Italy.  — 
In  1818  the  Shel- 
leys  went  to  Italy, 
in  which  country 
they  lived  for  the 
remaining  four 
years  of  the  poet's 
life.  He  changed 
his  place  of  resi- 
dence repeatedly, 
partly  no  doubt 
because  of  the 
scandal  every- 
where   associated 


3\ 

'iC^HEHE^jl^^v    &  i 

^jbm^^^^-r^"^^        ^^Hl 

Ih   perc:v    bysshe  sheluly  ^^H 

^^^yf                  .   OR    COt<Dl\JM                 ^^^1 

P,,.„,_,...„M.CCxJ 

HoBlITyill  lUL.MDCCCXXW^ 

Wm         UotL n a  of  fum  i^.Ql  ^od  Jad.           J 
H           But  dotf.  s^er  a  sea-c^oa^e           m 

Shelley's  Grave. 
In  the  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome. 


with  his  name.  Most  people,  he  himself  said,  regarded  him 
as  "  a  prodigy  of  crime."  Later,  however,  some  real  friend- 
ships came  into  his  life,  and  his  last  two  years  were  not  un- 
happy.    His  death  came  by  accidental  drowning. 

"  Prometheus  Unbound."  —  One  work  of  Shelley's  be- 
sides his  lyrics  is  of  interest  to  the  average  reader  —  Prome- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    253 

theus  Unbound,  called  by  the  author  "  a  lyrical  drama." 
In  a  long  preface  he  says  the  drama  is  an  expression  of  his 
"  passion  for  reforming  the  world."  Mrs.  Shelley  explains 
in  a  note  that  Prometheus  typifies  humanity,  and  that  Her- 
cules, who  "  liberates  him  from  the  tortures  generated  by 
evil  done  or  suffered,"  typifies  strength.  "  Shelley's  theory 
of  the  destiny  of  the  human  species  was,"  she  says,  "  that 
evil  is  not  inherent  in  the  system  of  the  creation,  but  an  acci- 
dent that  might  be  expelled." 

When  friendly  commentators,  however,  have  done  their 
best,  Prometheus  Unbound  remains  still  something  of  a 
puzzle.  Yet  there  is  much  in  it  to  attract  any  lover  of  poetry, 
even  though  he  is  not  a  partisan  of  Shelley.  One  of  the  most 
charming  of  the  lyrical  passages  is  assigned  to  a  Spirit  in 
act  I : 

"  On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be ; 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man. 

Nurslings  of  immortality! '! 

It  has  been  observed  that  these  lines  are  "  vividly  suggestive 
of  Shelley's  own  poetic  temper." 

Greatest  Lyrics.  —  Three  of  his  most  generally  admired 
lyrics  are  among  those  also  ranked  highest  by  critical  opinion 
—  To  a  Sky-Lark,  Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  and  The  Cbud.  It  is 
idle  to  say  much  of  such  poems :   the  thoughtful  reader  will 


254  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Facsimile  of  Shelley's  Sky-Lark. 

In  his  own  handwriting. 

(Widener  Memorial  Library,  Harvard  University.) 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    255 

find  more  in  them  than  any  helper  can  find  for  him.  It  may 
be  not  amiss  to  advise  one  approaching  them  for  the  first 
time  that  they  are  noted  for  fitness  of  metrical  form  to  sense 
as  well  as  for  most  felicitous  language  and  imagery. 

The  circle  of  Shelley  enthusiasts  is  small,  the  main  objec- 
tion of  others  being  the  many  things  he  fails  to  do.  For 
such  we  may  quote  from  a  famous  apostrophe  to  Shelley : 

"  Each  poet  gives  what  he  has,  and  what  he  can  offer ;  you 
spread  before  us  fairy  bread,  and  enchanted  wine,  and  shall  we 
turn  away  with  a  sneer,  because,  out  of  all  the  multitudes  of 
singers,  one  is  spiritual  and  strange?  Let  Shelley  sing  of  what 
he  saw,  what  none  saw  but  Shelley !  "  ^ 

JOHN   KEATS,    1795-1821 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 

These  lines  from  Keats's  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  give  the 
whole  of  his  poetic  creed,  and  the  clew  to  his  place  in  English 
poetry.  The  high  priest  of  beauty,  he  took  a  firm  stand 
against  didactic  poetry,  contending  that  if  a  poem  gives 
pleasure  by  appeal  to  one's  love  of  beauty,  one  need  not  look 
for  a  meaning,  a  lesson,  to  explain  the  appeal.  The  love  gf 
beauty  was  with  him  a  passion;  and  it  fixes  his  place  as  a 
Romanticist.  This  quality  had  been  lost  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  and  Keats  restored  it  to  English  poetry. 

Humble  Birth,  and  Limited  Opportunities.  —  He  was 
born  in  London,  the  son  of  a  livery-stable  employe  and  of  the 
proprietor's  daughter.  Nothing  further  is  known  of  his 
antecedents ;  but  as  Lowell  remarks,  "  It  is  enough  that  his 
poetical  pedigree  is  of  the  best,  tracing  through  Spenser  to 
Chaucer."  He  had  a  grammar-school  education,  of  which 
*  Andrew  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead  Authors. 


256 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


the  most  important  gain  was  the  friendship  of  the  school- 
master's son,  Charles  Cowden  Clarke. 

Selection  of  Poetry  for  Life-work.  —  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon ;    but  though  he  studied 

surgery  four  years  and 
took  a  hospital  course, 
he  never  practised. 
About  the  time  that  he 
decided  to  give  up  sur- 
gery and  devote  him- 
self wholly  to  poetry, 
he  met  Leigh  Hunt, 
then  a  conspicuous 
figure  in  London  lit- 
erary circles.  Within 
a  short  time  he  made 
the  acquaintance  also 
of  Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge, Shelley,  William 
Hazlitt,  and  the  artists 
B.  R.  Hay  don  and 
Joseph  Severn. 

First  Publications. 
—  At  the  suggestion  of 
friends  Keats  in  1817 
published  a  volume  of  poems.  It  contained  little  meriting 
serious  attention  except  two  sonnets,  On  First  Looking 
into  Chapman's  Homer,  and  On  the  Grasshopper  and  the 
Cricket.  These  should  have  attracted  attention  from  the 
magazines;  but  they  seem  to  have  been  noticed  only  by 
Hunt's  paper  and  a  few  others  which  Hunt  influenced  to 
review  the  volume. 


Keat8. 
From  a  sketch  by  his  friend  Haydon. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    257 

"  Endyxnion."  —  The  following  year  he  published  Endym- 
ion :  A  Poetic  Romance,  in  four  books ;  and  from  that 
time  he  never  lacked  attention  from  critics.  The  Quarterly 
Review  and  Blackwood's  Magazine  attacked  it  viciously,  the 
former  boldly  proclaiming  that  the  reviewer  had  read  only 
the  first  book  of  the  poem.  Despite  any  faults  the  poem 
may  possess,  it  would  still  be  memorable  for  its  opening  lines  : 

"A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever : 
Its  loveliness  increases ;   it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness ;   but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing." 

Though  it  had  been  twenty  years  since  Lyrical  Ballads 
appeared,  and  six  since  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  older  magazines  were  still  hostile  to  innovations  in  liter- 
ature. The  Quarterly's  complaint :  "  There  is  hardly  a 
complete  couplet  enclosing  a  complete  idea  in  the  whole 
book,"  indicates  how  tenacious  was  the  hold  of  eighteenth- 
century  standards. 

Attitude  toward  Criticism.  —  So  harsh  was  this  attack 
that  for  many  years  it  was  popularly  supposed  to  have  caused 
Keats's  death.  Shelley  helped  to  perpetuate  this  idea  in  his 
poem  in  memory  of  Keats,  Adonais;  and  Byron  added  the 
weight  of  an  epigram  : 

'"Who  killed  John  Keats?' 
*I,'  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  and  Tartarly ; 
'  'Twas  one  of  my  feats.'" 

That  the  hostile  articles  not  only  did  not  kill  him,  but  did 
not  even  seriously  disturb  him,  is  now  perfectly  well  known. 
It  should  have  been  known  to  any  reader  of  the  poet's  pref- 
ace.     He   states   his    consciousness    that   the   poem   shows 


258  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every  error  denoting 
a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a  deed  accompHshed."  His 
motive  in  admitting  its  faults  he  expresses  thus :  "  This  is 
not  written  with  the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criti- 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Keats. 
(British  Museum.) 

cism  of  course,  but  from  the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate 
men  who  are  competent  to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a 
zealous  eye,  to  the  honour  of  English  literature."  No  man 
who  could  write  in  this  manly  fashion  could  be  much  worried 
by  a  spiteful  review. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    259 

Keats's  third  volume,  including  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes, 
the  fragment  Hyperion,  and  the  five  great  odes  —  To  a 
Nightingale,  On  a  Grecian  Urn,  To  Psyche,  To  Autumn, 
and  On  Melancholy  —  appeared  in  the  summer  of  1820. 
The  presence  of  genius  here 
was  unmistakable,  and  was 
recognized  on  all  hands.  Keats, 
however,  was  now  almost  be- 
yond interest  in  appreciation. 
The  hand  of  death,  in  the  form 
of  consumption,  was  already 
upon  him ;  and  in  pursuance  of 
his  physician's  advice,  he  set 
out  for  Rome  in  September, 
1820,  hoping  for  benefit  from  a 
winter  in  the  south.  Severn, 
his  most  devoted  friend,  ac- 
companied him,  and  gave  him 
every  aid  j)Ossible;  but  noth- 
ing could  avail,  and  he  died 
February  23,  1821. 


Name  "  Writ  in  Water  "  ?  — 

^^         ,  .         ,  Keats's  Grave. 

Above    Keats  s    grave    m    the  ,     _  ^         ^ 

.        „  In  the  Protestant  cemetery  at 

Protestant  cemetery  m    Kome  Rome. 

is  an  epitaph  of  his  own  com- 
posing :    "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 
Against  this  may  well  be  set  some  lines  of  a  later  poet :  ^ 

"The  Star  of  Fame  shines  down  upon  the  river, 
And  answering,  the  stream  of  Life  repeats : 
•  Upon  our  waters  shall  be  writ  forever 
The  name  of  Keats ! ' " 


>  J.  E.  Spingarn. 


260  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

In  a  moment  less  despairing  than  that  in  which  he  penned 
his  epitaph,  Keats  had  himself  expressed  confidence  in  his 
future :  "  I  think  I  shall  be  among  the  English  poets  after 
my  death."  No  one  to-day  would  think  of  questioning  the 
fulfilment  of  his  belief. 

Keats's  Artistry  and  Character.  —  What  most  impresses 
the  student  of  Keats  is  not  his  mere  promise,  not  chiefly  his 
tragically  short  career,  but  the  amount  of  really  good  poetry 
he  wrote.  Byron  produced  a  vastly  larger  amount  in  a  few 
more  years ;  so  did  Shelley.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  either 
reached  the  level  of  Keats's  best  work  as  often  as  Keats  did. 
While  they,  moreover,  had  their  peculiar  merits,  neither 
seems  often  to  have  shown  the  conscientious  care  for  work- 
manship that  Keats  showed.  Examination  of  variant 
readings  in  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  for  example,  reveals  a 
constant  search  for  the  right  word  that  marks  the  true  artist. 
Jn  his  devotion  to  one  ideal,  the  expression  of  the  beautiful, 
he  shows  fixedness  of  purpose  that  marks  lofty  character  as 
well. 

EoMANTic  Prose 

It  is  a  common  saying  that  the  true  glory  of  the  Romantic 
period  lies  in  its  poetry  rather  than  in  its  prose.  We  have, 
however,  already  noted  that  Coleridge  fills  a  far  larger  niche 
in  our  prose  literature  than  in  our  poetic ;  and  when  we  join 
with  his  name  the  names  of  Lamb  and  De  Quincey,  and 
realize  that  Macaulay's  style  was  the  product  of  this  age,  we 
may  well  hesitate  to  disparage  its  prose,  even  by  comparison. 
There  was  room  for  advance  in  some  directions  even  on  the 
excellent  eighteenth-century  prose,  which  was,  on  the  whole, 
lacking  in  color  and  individuality.  These  qualities  are  the 
distinguishing  contributions  to  English  prose  of  the  two 
greatest  Romantic  essayists. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    261 

CHARLES   LAMB,    1775-1834 

In  the  life  of  Lamb,  apart  from  his  writing,  there  are  two 
threads,  which  Wordsworth  must  have  had  in  mind  in  call- 
ing him  "  the  frolic  and  the  gentle."  He  was  a  constant 
joker,  at  his  own  as  well  as  others'  expense;  and  he  gave  a 
large  part  of  his  life  to  caring  for  an  afflicted  sister. 

We  think  we  cannot  better  introduce  a  sketch  of  Lamb 
than  by  one  of  his  jokes,  written  when  he  was  fifty-two  years 
old,  and  entitled 

"An  Autobiographical  Sketch 

"Charles  Lamb  born  in  the  Inner  Temple  10  Feb.  1775 
educated  in  Christ's  Hospital  afterwards  a  clerk  in  the  Ac- 
countant's office  East  India  House  pensioned  off  from  that  ser- 
vice 1825  after  33  years  service,  is  now  a  Gentleman  at  large, 
can  remember  few  specialities  in  his  life  worth  noting  except 
that  he  once  caught  a  swallow  flying  {teste  sud  manu)  [witness 
his  own  hand] ;  below  the  middle  stature,  cast  of  face  sUghtly 
Jewish,  with  no  Judaic  tinge  in  his  complexional  religion  ;  stam- 
mers abominably  and  is  therefore  more  apt  to  discharge  hi^ 
occasional  conversation  in  a  quaint  aphorism  or  a  poor  quibble 
than  in  set  and  edifying  speeches :  has  consequently  been  libelled 
as  a  person  always  aiming  at  wit,  which,  as  he  told  a  dull  fellow 
that  charged  him  with  it,  is  at  least  as  good  as  aiming  at  dulness ; 
a  small  eater  but  not  drinker ;  confesses  a  partiality  for  the 
production  of  the  juniper  berry,  was  a  fierce  smoker  of  Tobacco, 
but  may  be  resembled  to  a  volcano  burnt  out,  emitting  only 
now  and  then  a  casual  puff.  Has  been  guilty  of  obtruding 
upon  the  Public  a  Tale  in  Prose,  called  Rosamund  Gray,  a 
Dramatic  Sketch  named  John  Woodvil,  a  Farewell  Ode  to 
Tobacco,  with  sundry  other  Poems  and  light  prose  matter, 
collected  in  Two  slight  crown  Octavos  and  pompously  chris- 
tened his  Works,  tho'  in  fact  they  were  his  Recreations  and  his 
true  works  may  be  found  on  the  shelves  of  Leadenhall  Street, 
filling  some  hundred  Folios.  He  is  also  the  true  Elia  whose 
Essays  are  extant  in  a  little  volume  published  a  year  or  two 
since ;    and  rather  better  known  from  that  name  without  a 


262 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


meaning,  than  from  anything  he  has  done  or  can  hope  to  do 
in  his  own.  He  also  was  the  first  to  draw  the  PubUc  attention 
to  the  old  English  Dramatists  in  a  work  called  *  Specimens  of 
EngUsh  Dramatic  Writers  who  lived  about  the  time  of  Shaks- 
peare,'  published  about  15  years  since.  In  short  all  his  merits 
and  demerits  to  set  forth  would  take  to  the  end  of  Mr.  Upcott'3 
book  and  then  not  be  told  truly.     He  died  * 

18     much  lamented. 
Witness  his  hand,  Charles  Lamb. 

10th  Apr  1827. 

1  To  any  Body- — Please  to  fill  up  these  blanks.  " 

The  Tragedy  of  Lamb's  Life.  —  In  this  sketch  he  omits 
all  reference  to  the  tragedy  of  his  life;  yet  without  knowl- 
edge of  that,  one  has 
but  an  imperfect  pic- 
ture of  Lamb.  When 
he  was  twenty-one 
years  old,  his  sister 
Mary,  in  a  fit  of  insan- 
ity, killed  her  mother. 
In  order  to  save  her 
from  permanent 
confinement  Lamb, 
though  ten  years  her 
junior,  assumed  the 
care  of  her;  and  he 
devoted  himself  to 
this  task  till  his  death 
at  the  age  of  fifty-nine.  Mary  Lamb  had  recurring  attacks 
of  the  trouble ;  but  there  was  always  some  warning  of  their 
approach.  One  of  the  most  pathetic  pictures  from  these 
lives  is  that  of  the  brother  and  sister  walking  across  the  field, 
hand  in  hand  and  with  tear-stained  faces,  to  the  asylum 
where  she  was  treated. 


East  India  House. 
Scene  of  Lamb's  labors. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    263 

"Tales  from  Shakspere."  —  One  of  the  fruits  of  their 
close  association  was  the  volume  by  which  Charles  Lamb 
is  doubtless  most  widely  known,  Tales  from  Shakspere. 
Mary  Lamb  wrote  the  comedies  and  Charles  the  tragedies ; 
and  while  the  collection  can  hardly  be  called  a  great  piece 
of  literature,  it  still  possesses  interest  for  many  people  older 
than  the  children  for  whom  it  was  intended. 

Friendships.  —  Lamb  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  the  lead- 
ing men  of  letters  —  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Hazlitt,  De 
Quincey,  Godwin,  and  many  others.  His  friendship  with 
Coleridge,  begun  at  Christ's  Hospital,  continued  without 
interruption  till  death;  and  Lamb's  biographer,  Canon 
Ainger,  is  of  the  opinion  that  Coleridge's  death  was  Lamb's 
death  blow.     He  survived  his  friend  but  five  months. 

Lamb  and  Coleridge.  —  Many  of  the  humorous  stories 
of  Lamb  are  connected  with  Coleridge.  "  Charles,"  Cole- 
ridge once  said,  "  did  you  ever  hear  me  preach ?  "  —  "I 
n-n-never  heard  you,"  stammered  Lamb,  "  d-d-do  anything 
else."  Coleridge's  lectures  and  conversation  have  been 
remarked  on,  but  not  the  fact  that  he  was  quite  willing  on 
occasion  to  lecture  to  an  individual.  One  day,  according  to 
Lamb,  his  distinguished  friend  met  him  on  the  street,  caught 
hold  of  a  button  on  his  coat,  pushed  him  into  a  store  entrance, 
and  began  talking.  In  a  few  moments  he  closed  his  eyes. 
Now  Lamb  was  very  much  interested;  but  being  also  bent 
on  business,  he  took  out  his  knife,  cut  off  the  button,  and 
proceeded  on  his  way.  Returning  some  time  later,  he  found 
Coleridge  in  the  same  place,  delivering  an  impassioned  dis- 
course to  the  button. 

Lamb  and  De  Quincey.  —  De  Quincey  has  recorded  his 
consternation  when  Lamb,  on  their  first  meeting,  indulged 


264  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

in  pretended  criticism  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth.  Asked 
for  an  instance  from  The  Ancient  Mariner  to  justify  his 
criticism,  Lamb  replied :    "  Pray  what  do  you  say  to  this  — 

'The  many  men  so  beautiful, 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie '  ? 

So  beautiful,  indeed !  Beautiful !  Just  think  of  such  a  gang 
of  Wapping  ^  vagabonds,  all  covered  with  pitch,  and  chewing 
tobacco;  and  the  old  gentleman  himself  —  what  do  you 
call  him  ?  —  the  bright-eyed  fellow  ?  " 

Lamb's  Humor.  —  The  most  conspicuous  quality  of 
Lamb's  essays,  one  is  not  surprised  to  find,  is  humor.  It  is 
humor  of  a  unique  order,  moreover,  though  it  manifests 
itself  in  a  variety  of  ways.  Sometimes  it  consists  in  a  novel 
use  of  quotations ;  as,  for  example,  in  A  Dissertation  upon 
Roast  Pig,  where  he  rejoices  in  the  immaturity  of  the  animal 

"Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  timely  care"  — 

from  Coleridge's  Epitaph  on  an  Infant.  Frequently  it  is 
an  unexpected  turn  of  phrase,  as  the  first  sentence  in  A  Chap- 
ter on  Ears  —  "I  have  no  ear ;  "  after  which  he  hastens  to 
inform  us  that  he  refers  to  an  ear  for  music.  The  introduc- 
tory paragraph  in  Poor  Relations  is  typical  yet  not  exactly 
paralleled  elsewhere :  he  gives  twenty-seven  phrases  to 
characterize  his  subject,  beginning  with  "  the  most  irrelevant 
thing  in  nature  "  and  ending  with  "  the  one  thing  not  need- 
ful." 

Lamb's  Pathos.  —  This  humor,  of  which  a  variety  of  illus- 
trations might  be  given  indefinitely,  has  been  well  described 
as  that  "  which  lies  near  to  pathos  and  continually  passes 

1  Wapping  is  the  shipping  quarter  of  London. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S   DEATH    265 

into  and  emerges  from  it."  In  some  of  the  Essays  of  EUa  it 
has  passed  quickly  into  pathos  and  not  emerged  at  all.  Such 
a  one  is  Dream-Children,  giving  an  imaginary  picture  of  him- 
self with  grandchildren.  It  is  by  many  believed  to  be  auto- 
biographical, "  Alice  W — n,"  whom  he  says  he  courted  "  for 
seven  long  years,"  being  identified  with  a  certain  Nancy 
Simmons.     The  story  goes  that,  when  he  assumed  charge  of 


^'^  Z*^"^  '^^^'  -/l^/^^  •  7)o  £^^  ajfi^/ 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Lamb. 

Telling  how  to  cook  frogs'  legs. 

(British  Museum.) 

his  sister,  he  felt  it  necessary  to  put  behind  him  all  thoughts 
of  love  and  marriage. 

Autobiography  of  a  "  Gentle  "  Writer.  —  Whether  or  not 
Dream-Children  has  immortalized  a  real  love-affair,  there  is 
certainly  much  autobiography  in  EUa.  Mockery  End  in 
Hertfordshire  and  Blakesmoor  in  H — shire  are  undoubted 
reproductions  of  communities  in  which  he  visited.  His 
"  cousins,"  James  and  Bridget  Elia,  are  himself  and  his 
sister.     Many  of  his  friends  are  called  by  their  real  names  in 


266  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

the  essays.  The  writings  of  such  a  man  as  Lamb  are,  it  has 
been  said,  all  autobiography;  and  the  life  pictured  is  a 
singularly  sweet  and  gentle  one.     Said  one  friend :  ^ 

"He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs  and  years, 
Far  worthier  things  than  tears. 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe : 
Unequaled  lot  below!" 

THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY,    1785-1859 

A  Stylist.  —  It  is  as  a  writer  of  "  impassioned  prose  "  that 
De  Quincey  claimed  a  place  for  himself  in  English  literature. 
To-day  it  is  evident  that  although  there  is  much  of  value  in 
the  matter  of  his  writings,  he  is  important  chiefly  for  style. 
Since,  moreover,  impassioned  prose  is  a  thing  likely  to 
attract  strongly  or  repel  strongly,  readers  of  De  Quincey  are 
almost  invariably  partisan  or  hostile.  The  final  judgment 
should  probably  take  a  middle  course,  frankly  admitting  his 
defects  while  stoutly  proclaiming  his  merits. 

Carlyle's  Description  of  De  Quincey.  —  No  one  could  read 
The  Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater  without  feeling  that  the 
author  was  a  strange  being.  Strange  he  was  indeed,  not 
only  in. mind,  but  in  physical  appearance  as  well,  if  we  may 
trust  Carlyle's  famous  description  of  him. 

"One  of  the  smallest  man-figures  I  ever  saw;  shaped  like  a 
pair  of  tongs ;  and  hardly  above  five  feet  in  all .  When  he  sat, 
you  would  have  taken  him,  by  candlelight,  for  the  beautifulest 
little  child;  bluereyed,  blonde-haired,  sparkling  face,  had  there 
not  been  a  something,  too,  which  said,  '  Eccovi,^  this  child  has 
been  in  Hell!'" 

*  Walter  Savage  Landor,  To  Mary  Lamb. 

^  Italian,  meaning  something  like  "Look  here!"  This  is  from  Car- 
lyle's Reminiscences,  written  many  years  after  De  Quincey's  death. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    267 


Irregular  Education.  — De  Quincey  was  bom  in  Manchester, 
a  large  manufacturing  city  about  two  hundred  miles  north- 
west of  London  and  about  forty  east  of  Liverpool.  When 
he  was  eight  years  old  his  father  died ;  and  shortly  afterward 
his  mother  moved  to  the  city  of  Bath  in  southern  England. 
His  early  education  was 
obtained  in  most  unsatis- 
factory fashion :  two  years 
at  Bath  Grammar  School, 
a  short  time  with  private 
tutors,  one  year  at  a  school 
in  Wiltshire,  a  period  of 
travel  with  a  friend  in  Ire- 
land, two  years  at  Man- 
chester Grammar  School. 
Yet  despite  this  irregular- 
ity, he  made  a  strong  im- 
pression everywhere  by  his 
scholarship,  particularly  in 
languages.      At   fifteen,   he 

says,  he  "  could  converse  in  Greek  fluently  and  without 
embarrassment ;  "  and  he  quotes  one  of  his  teachers  as  say- 
ing to  a  friend :  "  That  boy  could  harangue  an  Athenian 
mob  better  than  you  or  I  could  address  an  English  one." 

Wanderings.  —  L^nhappy  at  the  Manchester  School,  and 
not  allowed  to  withdraw,  he  ran  away.  He  was  not  returned 
to  the  school ;  and  a  short  time  afterward  received  an  allow- 
ance of  a  guinea  a  week  for  a  tramp  in  Wales.  For  several 
months  he  wandered,  the  latter  part  of  the  time  without 
funds  because  of  failure  to  communicate  with  his  home.  In 
November,  1802,  he  was  in  London,  and  for  five  months  lived 
the  life  of  a  vagrant  in  the  streets.     Discovered  accidentally 


De  Quincey. 


268  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

by  friends,  he  was  persuaded  to  go  home ;  and  in  the  autumn 
was  entered  at  Worcester  College,  Oxford. 

Introduction  to  Opium.  —  At  the  university  he  lived  much 
to  himself,  and  read  extensively;  and  the  habit  of  solitude 
which  he  cultivated  increased  natural  diffidence.  The  result 
was  that,  after  passing  written  examinations  brilliantly,  he 
so  dreaded  the  orals  that  he  ran  away  and  hence  received  no 
degree.  During  these  years,  while  on  a  visit  to  London,  he 
first  used  opium,  the  practice  to  which  he  unquestionably 
owed  not  a  little  of  his  fame.  His  own  minute  record,  how- 
ever, of  a  not  entirely  successful  struggle  against  opium  would 
hardly  lead  one  to  desire  fame  at  so  great  a  cost. 

To  the  Lake  District.  —  After  the  Wordsworths  left 
Dove  Cottage,  Grasmere,  De  Quincey  occupied  it  for  a  num- 
ber of  years.  Though  Wordsworth  was  the  chief  attraction 
in  the  region  for  him,  he  found  another  in  the  person  of 
Margaret  Simpson,  a  Westmoreland  farmer's  daughter, 
whom  he  married  in  1816. 

Publication  of  the  "Confessions."  —  The  year  1821,  when 
De  Quincey  removed  to  London,  stands  out  prominently 
in  his  life.  In  that  year  there  appeared  in  the  London 
Magazine,  in  two  instalments,  The.  Confessions  of  an  English 
Opium-Eater :  Being  an  Extract  from  the  Life  of  a  Scholar : 
and  De  Quincey's  career  as  a  contributor  to  magazines  was 
determined.  Readers  who  had  become  used  to  new  and 
striking  things  in  both  poetry  and  prose  found  in  this 
work  a  yet  greater  surprise.  The  intimate  self-revela- 
tion, together  with  the  wonderful  style  which  revealed  new 
capacities  in  the  language,  made  the  Confessions  eclipse  in 
interest  even  the  Essays  of  Ella  appearing  in  the  same 
magazine. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    269 

A  Peculiar  Character.  —  De  Quincey  returned  to  Gras- 
mere,  and  continued  to  reside  there  until  1828.  In  that  year 
he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  in  and  near  which  city  he  spent 
the  remaining  thirty-one  years  of  his  life.  After  the  death 
of  his  wife  in  1837,  his  daughters  tried  to  make  a  home  for 
him ;  but  he  was  impatient  of  company  and  regularity,  and 


The  Study  at  Dove  Cottage. 
De  Quincey  gives  a  full  description  of  the  entire  house  in  his  Confessions, 

occupied  lodgings  in  various  parts  of  Edinburgh.  To  the  end 
he  continued  a  peculiar  man.  He  would  remain  in  one 
abode,  we  are  told,  until  his  accumulation  of  books  and 
papers  made  work  impossible ;  then  he  would  move,  leaving 
his  property  behind  him.  One  of  his  daughters  would  then 
follow  him,  sort  the  worthless  from  the  valuable,  and  take 
the  latter  to  her  father's  new  home. 

A  complete  list  of  De  Quincey's  works  would  fill  several 


270 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


pages  of  this  book.     Not  only  was  he  a  voluminous  writer ;  he 
wrote  on  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  classified  by  Masson  as 

autobiography,  biog- 
raphies, historical  es- 
says, speculative  and 
theological  essays,  po- 
litical .  economy  and 
politics,  literary  theory 
and  criticism,  tales  and 
romances. 


CONFESSIONS 


ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 


LONDON ; 


I'RIUIED  Fori  TAVLOR  AND  UESSEY,  FLEEf  SIREJEf. 


1822. 


Title-Page  of   the   First   Edition    of 

THE  Confessions. 

This  edition  was  published  anonymously. 

Note  that  the  author's  name  on  title-page 

is  inserted  in  pencil. 

(New  York  Public  Library.) 


Minor  Writings.  — 
It  cannot  be  said  that 
he  was  equally  success- 
ful in  all  fields.  His 
political  and  specula- 
tive writings  have 
served  no  purpose 
beyond  "  respectable 
padding  for  maga- 
zines." Some  of  his 
historical  essays,  Joan 
of  Arc,  for  example, 
are  marred  by  the  in- 
trusion of  jocular  pas- 
sages at  most  serious 
moments,  and  by  an  oc- 
casional lapse  into  con- 
versational tone.    His 


criticism  of  Goethe,  in  which  he  asserts  that  the  German 
poet's  reputation  will  sink  for  several  generations  till  it 
reaches  its  proper  level,  is  a  classic  of  misconception.  One 
of  his  literary  essays,   however,  On   the   Knocking   at   the 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    271 

Gate  in   Macbeth,  is  a  classic   piece  of  analysis   and   inter- 
pretation. 

In  his  autobiographical  writings  De  Quincey  is  seen  at  his 
best.  These  include,  besides  the  Confessions,  chapters 
dealing  with  his  early  life,  and  sketches  of  prominent  men  in 
the  Lake  District  and  in  London. 

Self-revelation  in  the  "  Confessions." — By  the  Ccmfessixms 
De  Quincey  will  always  be  best  known,  and  by  them  his 
position  as  a  prose  writer  may  not  unfairly  be  determined. 
Even  after  we  allow  for  some  exaggeration,  some  inaccuracy 
of  memory,  and  some  coloring  due  to  use  of  the  drug,  this 
work  remains  a  wonderful  piece  of  self-revelation.  It  is  also- 
a  memorable  record  of  a  struggle  even  the  beginning  of  which 
would  be  beyond  most  men  in  such  a  situation.  The  pleas- 
ures of  opium  are  set  forth  in  picturesque  language  that 
might  tempt  the  unwary ;  but  this  is  followed  by  a  presenta- 
tion of  the  pains  of  opium  forceful  enough  to  deter  the  most 
daring. 

Defects  of  De  Quincey's  Style.  —  We  have  said  that  De 
Quincey  is  to  readers  of  to-day  important  for  his  style,  and 
that  it  is  not  a  style  altogether  meritorious  or  the  reverse. 
There  is  a  tendency  frequently  to  use  too  many  unfamiliar 
words  of  Latin  origin,  such  as  "  pandiculation,"  "  hypochon- 
driacally,"  "  sternutation."  His  sentences  too  frequently 
run  to  unwieldy  lengths,  and  are  made  more  objectionable 
by  digressions.  He  too  often  drops  suddenly  from  a  dignified 
to  almost  a  colloquial  manner. 

Chief  Attraction  of  his  Style.  —  These  and  more  serious 
defects  one  can  overlook  in  view  of  the  quality  that  is 
properly  described  as  "  poetical."     This  quality  is  apparent 


272  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

on  almost  every  page  —  in  that  wonderful  apostrophe  to 
opium,  beginning: 

"  Oh!  just,  subtle,  and  mighty  opium !  " 

in  the  contrasting  of  "  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the  girl  " 
and  "  the  sallow  and  bilious  skin  of  the  Malay ;  "  in  various 
descriptions  of  an  opium-eater;  and  in  accounts  of  tremen- 
dous opium  "  dreams."  Despite  his  digressions,  De  Quincey 
shows  also  great  constructive  power;  and  the  combination 
of  this  with  the  flow  of  poetical,  "  impassioned  "  language 
results  in  literary  art  of  a  high  order. 

Novelists 

In  addition  to  reaching  great  heights  in  poetry  and  essay, 
the  Romantic  period  is  marked  by  high  achievements  in 
another  field,  the  novel.  Of  the  two  chief  novelists  of  the 
period  we  may  say  that  each  created  a  type  of  novel,  and 
attained  a  preeminence  in  that  type  which  has  not  yet  been 
successfully  disputed.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  "  Wizard  of 
the  North,"  is  still,  after  a  century  of  imitation,  our  fore- 
most historical  novelist;  Miss  Austen,  in  like  manner, 
remains  our  foremost  writer  of  the  novel  of  social  comedy. 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT,    1771-1832 

One  of  the  fullest,  most  varied,  and  most  attractive  lives  to 
be  found  in  the  annals  of  literature  is  that  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  His  literary  life  began,  while  he  was  engaged  in  the 
practice  of  law,  with  translations  from  the  German;  pro- 
ceeded with  a  collection  of  ballads  from  the  Border  peas- 
antry ;  continued  with  a  series  of  romances  in  verse ;  with  lives 
of  Napoleon,  Dryden,  Swift,  and  the  novelists ;  extensive 
editions  of  the  works  of  Dryden  and  Swift;    essays  on  a 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    273 


variety  of  subjects ;  and  reached  its  climax  in  a  series  of 
twenty-nine  historical  romances,  picturing  vividly  most  of 
the  important  periods  in  English  and  Scottish  history  from 
the  First  Crusade  (end  of  the  twelfth  century)  to  the  last 
effort  of  the  Scotch 
to  restore  the  Stuarts 
(1745).  We  are  ex- 
ceedingly fortunate  in 
having  a  full  and  au- 
thoritative account  of 
this  life,  written  by 
his  son-in-law,  John 
Gibson  Lockhart,  a  bi- 
ography worthy  to  be 
compared  with  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson. 

Early  Life.— His  life 
before  he  became  a 
man  of  letters  was  not 
particularly  eventful. 
He  was  born  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  was,  as  he 
himself  put  it,  of  gentle, 
though  not  of  dis- 
tinguished, birth.  An  illness  when  he  was  eighteen  months  old 
left  him  so  weak  that  he  was  sent  to  his  grandfather's  farm 
to  recuperate.  When  he  had  improved  enough  to  be  moved, 
he  returned  to  his  parents  in  Edinburgh  and  entered  the  high 
school,  from  which  he  proceeded  in  1785  to  the  University  of 
Edinburgh.  Though  never  accused  of  being  a  dunce,  he  made 
no  mark  as  a  student,  chiefly  because  he  was  more  interested 
in  studies  of  his  own  choice  than  in  those  imposed  upon  him. 


Sib  Walter. 


274  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Marriage.  —  Scott  followed  his  father  into  the  profession 
of  law,  which  did  not  interest  him,  but  at  which  he  worked 
assiduously  for  five  or  six  years.  During  this  period  he 
wooed  and  lost  Miss  Margaret  Belches ;  then  finding  his 
heart  "  handsomely  pieced  "  in  a  year  or  so,  wooed  and  won 
another  Margaret,  Miss  Carpenter,  daughter  of  a  French 
royalist  who  died  early  in  the  Revolution.  The  union  appears 
to  have  been  an  ideally  happy  one,  in  striking  contrast  to  those 
of  his  friends  Coleridge,  Byron,  and  Shelley. 

To  Abbotsford.  —  In  1979  Scott  was  appointed  Sheriff  of 
Selkirkshire,  of  which  the  duties  were  light,  leaving  him 
much  leisure  for  writing.  Five  years  later  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  Ashestiel  on  the  Tweed;  and  eight  years  after 
that,  he  moved  to  Abbotsford,  the  large  estate,  also  on  the 
Tweed,  with  which  his  name  is  inseparably  connected. 

Poems.  —  Scott's  literary  career  was  begun  while  he  was 
still  practising  law,  with  translations.  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border,  a  collection  of  ballads  obtained  by  him 
chiefly  from  unlettered  peasants,  appeared  a  few  years  later. 
The  year  after  his  removal  to  Ashestiel,  however,  marks 
the  beginning  of  his  popular  success,  with  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel.  This  he  followed  with  Marmion,  a  tale  of 
Flodden  Field;  and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  a  romantic 
story  of  the  time  of  King  James  V,  the  scenes  of  which  are 
laid  on  and  around  beautiful  Loch  Katrine.  These  com- 
positions deserve  distinction  especially  as  the  first  of  his 
"  fine  examples  of  romantic  story,  freely  embroidered  upon  a 
framework  of  genuine  history."  ^  As  such,  they  are  the 
direct  ancestors  of  his  romantic  novels,  and  therefore  of  the 
greatest  value  in  the  development  of  English  story. 

»  Herford,  The  Age  of  Wordsworth,  page  112. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    275 


"  Waverley."  —  Shortly  after  he  settled  at  Abbotsford, 
or  to  be  exact  —  for  this  is  a  red-letter  date  in  English  litera- 
ture —  in  February,  1814,  while  rummaging  in  search  of 
fishing  tackle,  he  came  across  an  unfinished  prose  romance. 
This  manuscript,  begun  and  laid  aside  some  years  before,  he 
now  took  up  and  fin- 
ished; and  in  July  it 
appeared  anonymously 
with  the  title  Waverley  j 
or,  'Tis  Sixty  Years 
Since.  The  identity  of 
the  author  was  soon 
guessed ;  and  his  fame, 
which  had  been  under 
a  partial  eclipse  since 
Byron's  Childe  Harold 
appeared,  immediately 
surpassed  its  former 
brightness.  It  is 
scarcely  too  much  to 
say  that  it  has  not  been 
dimmed  since. 

Ascendency  of  Byron. 
—  It  is  characteristic  of 
Scott's  penetration  and  generosity  that  he  himself  recognized 
and  freely  acknowledged  Byron's  superiority  as  poet,  and  de- 
liberately sought  another  field.  After  the  publication  of  his 
second  novel,  Guy  Mannering,  his  publisher,  Ballantyne, 
calling  on  him  found  on  Scott's  table  a  copy  of  Byron's  The 
Giaour,  with  this  inscription  by  the  author :  To  the  Monarch 
of  Parnassus  from  one  of  his  subjects.  Though  Scott  appre- 
ciated the  kindliness  of  these  words,  he  knew  them  to  be  in- 


LocH  Katkine  and  "Ellen's  Isle.  " 


276  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

accurate,  and  said  to  Ballantyne :  "  James,  Byron  hits  the 
mark  where  I  don't  even  pretend  to  fledge  my  arrow."  In 
his  new  field  no  such  concession  has  yet  been  needed. 

Made  Baronet.  —  Being  created  a  baronet  in  any  fashion 
would  doubtless  have  given  Scott  great  satisfaction ;  but 
the  fashion  in  which  he  was  thus  honored  was  especially 
pleasing  to  him.     George  IV  conferred  the  honor  entirely 


Facsimile  of  Letter  of  Scott  to  Bishop  Percy  about  Ballads. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

on  his  own  initiative ;  and  in  doing  so  said  to  Scott :  "  I 
shall  reflect  with  pleasure  on  Sir  Walter  Scott's  having  been 
the  first  creation  of  my  reign." 

Fortune  Frowns.  —  So  far  Fortune  had  only  smiled  on  Sir 
Walter.  She  was  soon  to  bend  upon  him  a  frown,  the  dark- 
ness of  which  was  to  overshadow  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
He  had  for  many  years  been  a  silent  partner  in  his  publishing 
firm;  and  when  it  failed,  in  1826,  Scott  found  himself  in- 
volved to  the  extent  of  more  than  £100,000.     In  his  diary  he 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    277 

records  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  become  a  bankrupt,  and 
that  "  it  is  the  course  one  should,  at  any  rate,  have  advised 
a  client  to  take."  This  is  not,  however,  to  be  his  course : 
"  No,  —  if  they  permit  me,  I  will  be  their  vassal  for  life,  and 
dig  in  the  mine  of  my  imagination  to  find  diamonds  (or 
what  may  sell  for  such)  to  make  good  my  engagements." 
His  creditors  met  his  wishes ;  he  heroically  retrenched,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  stupendous  task.  When  he  died, 
half  the  debt  was  paid ;  and  the  income  from  his  copyrights 
paid  the  remainder  in  a  few  years.  Although  the  struggle 
very  probably  shortened  his  life,  sixty-one  is  not  an  early  age 
to  end  a  crowded  career ;  and  one  cannot  altogether  regret 
the  episode  that  showed  him  to  be  possessed  of  the  sort  of 
heroism  so  often  celebrated  by  him  in  both  prose  and  verse. 

The  End.  —  The  strain  of  these  years  of  forced  composition 
soon  began  to  tell.  He  could  write  Guy  Mannering  in  six 
weeks  with  pleasure  when  the  chief  spur  was  the  pleasure 
of  writing;  the  thought  of  creditors  outside  the  door  made 
such  feverish  haste  a  burden.  Early  in  1831  he  suffered  a 
paralytic  stroke,  and  a  general  breakdown  soon  followed.  In 
October  he  sailed  for  Italy  in  the  hope  that  "  warm  Vesuvio's 
vine-clad  slopes  "  would  repair  his  shattered  health.  The 
hope  was  vain.  In  March,  1832,  hearing  of  Goethe's  death, 
Scott  said :  "  Alas  for  Goethe ;  but  he  at  least  died  at  home  — 
Let  us  to  Abbotsford."  To  Abbotsford  he  was  taken,  died 
there  in  September,  and  was  buried  in  Dryburgh  Abbey 
near  by. 

Popular  Estimation.  —  The  journey  from  Italy  to  Scotland 
was  broken  by  a  short  stay  in  London  where  Scott  was  very 
ill  at  a  hotel  in  Jermyn  Street.  "  Allan  Cunningham 
mentions  that,  walking  home  late  one  night,  he  found  several 
working-men  standing   together   at  the  corner  of  Jermyn 


278 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Street,  and  one  of  them  asked  him  —  as  if  there  were  but 
one  death-bed  in  London  —  *  Do  you  know,  sir,  if  this  is 
the  street  where  he  is  lying?  '  "  (Lockhart.)  Such  was  the 
universal  affection  in  which  the  people  held  him. 


Scott'8  Tomb,  Dryburgh  Abbey. 

"With  the  noble  dead 
In  Dryburgh's  solemn  pile, 

Amid  the  peer  and  warrior  bold. 
And  mitred  abbots  stern  and  old, 
Who  sleep  in  sculptured  aisle." 


Scott's  Title  to  Fame.  —  Scholars  and  students  of  folk-lore 
will  always  owe  Scott  a  debt  for  his  enthusiasm  for  the  ballads 
which  he  so  lovingly  sought  and  transcribed.  It  is  likely  that 
his  poems  will  find  not  a  few  readers  for  many  decades.  His 
chief  title  to  fame  and  continued  popular  affection,  however, 
will  undoubtedly  rest  on  his  prose  romances,  called  from  the 
first  of  the  series  the  Waver  ley  Novels. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    279 


A  Selection  from  the  Waverley  Novels.  —  Although  any- 
thing approaching  an  adequate  characterization  of  the  series 
in  the  space  at  our  disposal  is  impossible,  something  should 
be  offered  as  a  guide  to  one  who  is  yet  to  be  introduced  to 
the  series,  or  having  been  introduced  is  to  pursue  the  ac- 
quaintance to  the  best  advantage.  Of  Ivanhoe,  Kenilworth, 
Rob  Roy,  and  perhaps  The  Talisman,  it  is  unnecessary  to 
speak,  because  of  long-continued  wide  popularity.  If  the 
present  writer  were  to  make  a  selection  to  represent  Scott 


The  Entrance  Hall  at  Abbotsford. 

most  adequately  and  to  make  disciples,  he  would  name 
these :  dealing  with  Scottish  history,  A  Legend  of  Montrose, 
and  Old  Mortality;  with  English  history,  The  Fortunes  of 
Nigel;  with  Scottish  private  life,  Guy  Mannering,  The  Heart 
of  Midlothian,  and  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor. 

A  Legend  of  Montrose  is  a  better  introduction  to  the 
Waverley  novels  than  most  of  the  series,  because  of  its  brevity 
and  its  simplicity  of  plot.  Its  historic  setting  is  the  Great 
Rebellion  (1645-6),  specifically  the  operations  of  Royalist 
forces  under  Montrose  in  the  Highlands.  History  is  treated 
with  great  freedom;    and  the  most  entertaining  character 


280  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

in  the  romance  is  Dugald  Dalgetty,  soldier  of  fortune,  with 
a  wonderful  horse  named  after  Gustavus  Adolphus  — 
"  the  Lion  of  the  North  and  the  bulwark  of  the  Protestant 
faith." 

Old  Mortality  deals  with  a  larger  canvas  (the  rebellion  of 
the  Covenanters  in  1679),  contains  many  stirring  battle 
scenes,  and  portrays  intimately  the  peasant  life  of  Scot- 
land. The  leaders  of  the  opposing  sides,  Graham  of  Claver- 
house  and  Balfour  of  Burley,  are  superb  figures,  drawn 
with  an  impartiality  to  which  Scott  did  not  always  at- 
tain. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  while  it  contains  much  of  varied 
interest,  is  chiefly  notable  for  its  picture  of  James  I,  generally 
regarded  as  Scott's  greatest  achievement  in  historical  por- 
traiture. 

;' 

f  Novels  of  Scottish  Private  Life.  —  If  it  be  true,  as  one 
critic  says,  that  "  the  permanent  value  of  Scott's  novels  lies  in 
his  pictures  of  the  Scottish  peasantry,"  then  the  last  three  of 
our  selection  constitute  his  chief  claim  on  our  attention. 
The  plots  of  two,  Guy  Mannering  and  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian, are  based  on  facts ;  but  the  facts  are  handled  as 
freely  by  Scott  as  are  his  historical  personages  and  back- 
grounds. Jeanie  Deans,  the  peasant  girl  who  in  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian  walks  from  Edinburgh  to  London  to  obtain  her 
sister's  pardon,  is  Scott's  finest  heroine ;  and  she  is  surpassed 
by  few  in  prose  fiction.  In  this  book  also  is  found  the 
fierce  Madge  Wildfire,  almost  matched  by  the  gypsy  Meg 
Merrilies  in  Guy  Mannering.  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  a 
sort  of  novelized  Romeo  and  Juliet,^  is  his  only  attempt  at  a 

1  Chapter  V  is  headed  by  this  quotation  from  the  play : 

"Is  she  a  Capulet? 
O  dear  account !   my  life  is  my  foe's  debt." 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    281 

love-tragedy.  The  characters  of  the  technical  hero  and 
heroine,  Edgar  of  Rav^enswood  and  Lucy  Ashton,  are  more 
convincing  than  such  persons  usually  are  in  Scott.  This 
romance  contains  also  one  of  his  best  comic  figures  —  Caleb 
Balderstone,  faithful  retainer  of  Ravenswood. 

Scott  a  Large  Figure.  —  The  preceding  four  paragraphs 
must  be  regarded  as  mere  hints  or  suggestions.     Sir  Walter 


Jeaxie  Deans's  Cottage. 
Home,  near  Edinburgh,  of  Scott's  most  delightful  heroine. 

Scott  created  the  historical  romance.  He  wrote  at  least  fif- 
teen specimens  of  that  type  which  have  not  been  surpassed, 
even  if  it  be  admitted  that  they  have  occasionally  been 
equalled.  He  fixed  the  type  as  it  has  remained ;  and  no 
sensible  A\Titer  would  to-day  attempt  this  kind  of  fiction 
without  a  diligent  perusal  of  the  master's  works.  To  know 
so  large  a  figure  requires  extensive  and  repeated  reading :  a 
sketch  of  this  sort  cannot  hope  to  do  more  than  whet  the 
reader's  appetite. 


282  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

JANE   AUSTEN,    1775-1817 

Jane  Austen's  outward  life  was  utterly  commonplace.  Her 
father  was  minister  in  Steventon,  Hampshire ;  and  she,  the 
seventh  of  eight  children,  was  born  in  the  rectory  there. 
No  details  are  known  regarding  her  education;  and  of  the 
first  twenty-one  years  of  her  life  almost  the  only  recorded 
happening  is  an  illness  she  had  at  the  age  of  eight  while  on 
a  visit  to  Southampton. 

A  Life  in  One  County.  —  When  Jane  was  twenty-one 
years  old,  the  family  moved  to  Bath;  and  after  eight  years 
in  that  city,  they  returned  to  Hampshire.  The  remainder 
of  Jane's  life  was  spent  in  this  county,  at  Southampton, 
Chawton,  and  Winchester.  In  the  last-named  city  she 
died;    and  in  the  cathedral  there  she  was  buried. 

Jane  and  Cassandra.  —  Almost  the  only  other  point  worth 
mentioning  in  connection  with  her  life  is  her  devotion  to  her 
sister  Cassandra,  two  years  her  senior.  To  this  attachment  is 
doubtless  due  her  custom  of  presenting  pairs  of  sisters  in 
her  novels  —  Jane  and  Elizabeth  Bennet  in  Pride  and  Prej- 
udice, Elinor  and  Marianne  Dashwood  in  Sense  and  Sen- 
sibility, Emma  Woodhouse  and  Isabella  W^oodhouse  Knightly 
in  Evima,  Maria  and  Julia  Bartram  in  Mansfield  Park. 

Character  of  her  Writings.  —  Surely  no  life  could  be 
apparently  more  wanting  in  materials  for  fiction;  but  it 
provided  just  the  materials  Miss  Austen  needed.  "  Three  or 
four  families  in  a  country  village,"  said  she,  "  is  the  very 
thing  to  work  on."  Her  people  are  presented  in  their 
everyday  dress  and  manners,  and  develop,  if  they  may  be 
said  to  develop  at  all,  without  the  aid  of  any  striking  episodes. 
We  see  them  at  close  range;    we  are  admitted  to  family 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    283 

circfes  and  village  parties  where  we  can  hear  a  great  deal 
of  exceedingly  aimless  conversation.  Yet  one  does  not  seem 
to  be  speaking  rashly  in  saying  that  he  must  indeed  be  dull 
of  soul  and  innocent  of  a  sense  of  humor  who  does  not  enjoy 
these  novels. 


Winchester  Cathedral. 

The  most  familiar  of  Jane  Austen  "shrines."     She  died  in  Winchester, 
and  is  buried  in  the  cathedral. 


Scott's  Tribute.  —  No  greater  tribute  has  been  paid  her 
than  an  oft-quoted  one  by  Sir  Walter :  "  The  Big  Bow-wow 
style  I  can  do  myself  like  any  now  going ;  but  the  exquisite 
touch  which  renders  commonplace  things  interesting " 
(found  in  Miss  Austen)  "  is  denied  me."  This  contrast 
between  the  methods  of  the  two  novelists  may  be  brought 


284  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

out  by  comparing  passages  that  may  be  found  in  any  of 
their  books.* 

Humor  in  Dialogue.  —  One  who  can  make  such  subjects  as 
Miss  Austen's  interesting  must  be  a  genuine  humorist,  and 
that  is  what  Miss  Austen  is.  Her  humor  charms  on  almost 
every  page,  manifesting  itself  most  delightfully  in  dialogue. 
Frequently  when  action  is  lacking,  interest  in  the  characters 
is  kept  at  a  high  point  by  the  humor  and  entire  naturalness 
of  their  every-day  conversation. 

The  Victorian  Age 

No  definite  year  marks  the  change  from  the  Romantic  age 
to  the  Victorian.  Macaulay  and  Carlyle,  true  Victorians, 
began  their  literary  careers  in  1825  and  1824  respectively; 
and  De  Quincey  and  Wordsworth,  as  we  have  seen,  continued 
to  write  until  the  middle  of  the  century.  The  year  1832  is 
chosen  as  the  dividing  line,  not  quite  arbitrarily,  yet  with  no 
idea  of  being  exact. 

Variety  in  Individual  Writers.  —  One  characteristic  of  the 
second  division  of  the  century  has  been  mentioned  —  the 
growth  of  the  scientific  spirit.  Of  many  others  that  might 
be  given,  perhaps  variety  is  the  most  striking.  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  combined  the  callings  of  poetry  and  criticism ; 
Coleridge  also  claims  consideration  as  philosopher.  The 
other  great  writers  of  the  earlier  period,  however,  were  limited 
in  their  modes  of  expression :  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats, 
poets  only  (and  each  eminent  in  one  limited  field).  Miss 
Austen,  a  novelist  only.  Lamb  and  De  Quincey,  essayists 

*  Cf.,  for  example,  the  first  meeting  of  Edgar  and  Lucy  in  The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor,  chap.  V,  with  the  interview  of  Elizabeth  Bennet  and 
Lady  Catherine,  in  Pride  and  Prejudice,  chap.  LVI. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    285 

only.     It  is  further  to  be  noted  that  the  entire  group  were 
men  of  letters  exclusively. 

The  great  Victorians,  on  the  other  hand,  were  seldom  to  be 
restricted  to  a  scanty  plot  of  ground.  Macaulay  was  states- 
man, historian,  literary  essayist.  Arnold  was  poet,  literary 
essayist,  worker  in  education,  student  of  society,  and  through 
all,  reformer.  Thackeray,  though  in  all  minds  primarily  a 
novelist,  wrote  some  essays  of  great  merit,  and  some  ballads 
by  no  means  to  be  despised.  One  thinks  of  Dickens  as 
novelist;  yet  in  view  of  the  conscious  purpose  underlying 
many  of  his  fictions,  it  is  a  question  whether  he  should  not  be 
considered  first  of  all  a  reformer.  Tennyson  and  Browning, 
the  two  most  conspicuous  figures  in  Victorian  literature,  were 
poets  only ;  but  their  poetry  covers  so  wide  a  range  that  they 
too  exemplify  well  the  variety  of  interest  and  of  form  of 
expression  belonging  to  the  age. 

THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY,    1800-1859 

First  in  time  of  the  Victorians  is  Macaulay,  who  was  born 
in  the  jear  of  Wordsworth's  preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 
and  who  published  his  first  essay  nine  years  before  the  deaths 
of  Lamb  and  Coleridge.  That,  the  enthusiastic  reception  of 
his  Milton  (1825)  was  due  somewhat  to  the  Romantic  love 
of  newness,  makes  his  work  look  backward ;  but  he  was  not 
essentially  an  innovator,  and  his  work  as  a  whole  clearly 
belongs  with  that  of  the  later  period. 

Macaulay's  Style.  —  What  attracted  readers  to  Macaulay 
was  his  style.  "  The  more  I  think,"  wrote  Jeffrey,  editor  of 
the  magazine  in  which  the  Milton  essay  appeared,  "  the  less 
I  can  conceive  where  you  picked  up  that  style."  It  is  a 
style  that  has  had  a  host  of  admirers ;  and  even  its  severest 
critic,  Matthew  Arnold,  admits  that  it  is  "  a  style  to  dazzle. 


286  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

to  gain  admirers  everywhere,  to  attract  imitators  in  multi- 
tude." To  this  topic  we  must  return  after  stating  briefly 
the  facts  of  Macaulay's  Hfe. 

Childhood.  —  He  was  born  at  Rothley  Temple,  Leicester- 
shire, almost  the  geographical  centre  of  England.  His 
mother  was  a  Quaker,  and  his  father  a  Scotch  Presbyterian 
who  devoted  his  life  to  the  cause  of  abolition.  He  was  one 
of  the  precocious  children  of  literary  fame;  precocious, 
moreover,  in  a  way  to  foretell  his  future  greatness.     When 


Facsimile  of  Macaulay's  Signature. 
(British  Museum.) 

a  mere  child,  asked  by  a  lady  whether  he  was  suffering  from 
a  slight  accident,  he  replied  that  "  the  agony  was  abated." 
Before  his  school-days  were  over,  he  had  written  a  history 
of  the  world  and  several  heroic  poems,  which  a  wise  mother 
withheld  from  publication. 

College  Life.  —  His  parents  moved  to  London  while  he 
was  still  young;  and  although  his  preparatory  education 
was  received  in  the  country,  he  was  a  city  boy,  emphatically 
a  London  product.  His  record  at  school  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  did  not  disappoint  the  hopes  raised  by 
his  precocity.     After  graduating  in  1822,  he  contributed  to 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    287 

magazines,  making  his  first  success  with  Milton  three  years 
later.  From  1824  to  1831  he  held  a  fellowship  at  Trinity 
worth  £300  a  year. 

Public  Career.  —  Macaulay's  career  as  statesman  began 
with  his  election  to  Parliament  in  1830.  Though  he  con- 
tinued to  write  for  magazines,  he  gave  much  thought  to  the 
need  of  government  reforms,  especially  in  India.  His 
understanding  of  the  situation  in  India  brought  him  appoint- 
ment as  a  member  of  the  Supreme  Council  there  at  a  salary 
of  £10,000.  •  During  four  years  in  the  East  his  principal  work 
was  formulating  a  Criminal  Code  for  India,  which  he  did 
admirably.  Despite  the  demands  of  this  work  on  his  time, 
he  read  an  almost  incredible  amount,  chiefly  Latin  and 
Greek,  not  restricting  himself  to  classic  authors.  He  seems 
to  have  been  a  quite  undiscriminating  reader. 

"  Baron  "  Macaulay.  —  After  returning  to  England  he 
again  sat  in  Parliament,  held  positions  in  two  Whig  ministries, 
and  was  an  active  member  of  the  opposition  during  the  Tory 
ministry  of  Peel.  In  1857  his  services  to  the  state  were 
rewarded  by  elevation  to  the  peerage  as  "  Baron  Macaulay 
of  Rothley."  His  retirement  from  public  life  was  due  to 
anxiety  to  complete  his  History  of  England,  the  first  two 
volumes  of  which  had  appeared  in  1848.  His  failing  health 
retarded  the  writing,  and  the  five  volumes  completed  before 
his  death  were  only  a  small  portion  of  his  original  plan.  He 
died  in  December,  1859,  and  was  buried  in  Poets'  Corner, 
Westminster  Abbey. 

Poetry  and  Critical  Writing.  —  Besides  the.  History  of 
England  and  the  Essay  on  Milton,  Macaulay  WTote  a  number 
of  literary  and  historical  essays  for  magazines,  several 
biographies   for   the    Encyclopedia    Britannica,    and    some 


288 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


poems.  Although  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  call  Macaulay 
a  great  poet,  the  volume  called  The  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome 
enjoyed  great  popularity,  and  at  least  one,  Horatius  at  the 
Bridge,  still  has  admirers.  Another  justly  popular  poem  is 
the  martial  Battle  of  Ivry,  celebrating  the  victory  of  Henry 
of  Navarre  over  the  Holy  League.     His  essays  dealing  with 

literary  subjects,  it  must 
be  admitted,  do  not  seem 
destined  for  a  high  place. 
He  himself  said  :  *'  I  never 
have  written  *a  piece  of 
criticism  on  poetry  or  the 
fine  arts  which  I  would  not 
burn  if  I  had  the  power." 

Historical      Writing.  — 

There  remain  the  History 
and  the  historical  essays 
to  establish  Macaulay's 
rank  as  a  great  writer. 
"  I  have  written  several 
things,"  said  he,  "  on  his- 
torical, political,  and  moral 
questions,  by  which  I  am 
willing  to  be  estimated."  In  these  we  find  great  narrative 
skill,  and  power  to  present  scenes  in  vivid  language.  His  de- 
scription of  the  scene  at  the  trial  of  Warren  Hastings  (essay 
on  Hastings)  is  one  of  the  most  real  pictures  in  words  which 
our  language  can  boast.  The  account  of  London  coffee- 
houses ( History  of  England,  chapter  III)  is  even  more  striking 
because  he  is  presenting  not  an  individual  one  but  a  type. 

Virtues  of  his  Style.  —  The   virtues  of  Macaulay's  style 
are  not  hard  to  discover,  and  they  are  virtues  worthy  of 


Macaulay. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    289 

cultivation  by  every  one  who  would  write  effectively.  Clear- 
ness, simplicity,  and  force  are  the  most  evident  qualities. 
One  may  object  to  his  judgments.  Not  every  reader  of 
Boswell,  by  any  means,  will  agree  that  whereas  other  men 
"  attain  literary  eminence  in  spite  of  their  weaknesses,  Boswell 
attained  it  by  reason  of  his  weaknesses ;  "  but  no  one  ques- 
tions Macaulay's  meaning,  or  his  effectiveness  in  express- 
ing it.  One  may  object,  as  Arnold  vigorously  does,  to  the 
panegyric  of  the  Essay  on  Milton;  but  no  one  will  deny 
that  it  is  set  forth  in  a  perfectly  clear  and  exceedingly  effec- 
tive manner. 

Macaulay's  means  of  obtaining  these  qualities  can  be 
readily  found  by  a  careful  reader.  Simple,  concrete  words ; 
illustrations  from  nearby  objects,  scenes,  and  incidents; 
use  of  climax,  and  of  parallel  and  periodic  structure  in 
sentences;  and,  to  crown  all,  a  sense  of  organization  that 
makes  every  chapter  of  the  history,  every  essay,  every 
logical  subdivision  a  clear-cut  unit  —  these  are  some  of  the 
most  evident  means  of  producing  the  style  that  aroused 
Jeffrey's  wonder  and  that  has  enabled  Macaulay  ever  since 
to  hold  so  conspicuous  a  place  in  literature. 

THOMAS   CARLYLE,    1795-1881 

One  of  the  characteristics  of  Macaulay  that  is  not  altogether 
pleasing  is  what  an  acquaintance  called  his  "  cocksureness 
about  everything."  From  this  arose  a  supreme  satisfaction 
with  his  country,  its  society,  and  its  institutions.  Of  the 
many  respects  in  which  Carlyle  is  opposed  to  Macaulay, 
perhaps  none  is  more  striking  than  his  lack  of  satisfac- 
tion with  things  as  he  found  them,  and  his  determination 
to  shout  forth  denunciation  of  existing  evils  demanding 
remedy. 


290  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Carlyle's  Style.  —  Garlyle's  style  offers  a  great  contrast 
to  Macaulay's.  His  vocabulary,  says  Barry/  "  we  learn  as 
though  a  foreign  language."  Macaulay  himself  doubtless 
took  a  fling  at  his  great  rival  when,  in  his  Essay  on  Addison, 
he  spoke  of  "  the  half-German  jargon  of  the  present  day." 
An  amusing  characterization  of  this  style  is  given  in  one 
of   George   Meredith's   novels.^     There    it   is   described    as 

"a  wind-in-the-orchard  style,  that  tumbled  down  here  and 
there  an  appreciable  fruit  with  uncouth  bluster ;  sentences 
without  commencements  running  to  abrupt  endings  and  smoke, 
like  waves  against  a  sea  wall,  learned  dictionary  words  giving 
a  hand  to  street  slang,  and  accents  falling  on  them  haphazard, 
like  slant  rays  from  driving  clouds ;  all  the  pages  in  a  breeze ; 
the  whole  book  producing  a  kind  of  electrical  agitation  in  the 
mind  and  joints." 

Two  Great  Scotchmen.  —  This  great  writer,  who  became, 
in  the  words  of  Goethe,  "  a  moral  force  of  great  significance," 
was  a  Scotchman,  born  the  year  before  Burns's  death,  in  the 
town  of  Ecclefechan  in  Dumfriesshire,  some  fifteen  miles  from 
Burns's  last  home.  This  association  of  the  two  writers'  names 
is  a  natural,  not  a  forced  one ;  for  Carlyle  was  a  great  lover 
of  his  fellow-countryman,  and  twice  championed  his  cause  at 
great  length  —  in  an  essay  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  in 
The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters. 

Education.  —  Carlyle  was  of  sturdy  though  humble  stock ; 
his  father  was  a  stone-mason,  his  mother  a  very  religious 
Lowlander,  who  learned  to  write  in  order  to  write  to  her  son 
Thomas.  His  years  in  the  grammar  school  were  made  un- 
happy by  bullies,  who  took  advantage  of  his  determination 
not  to  fight.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  entered  Edinburgh 
University ;   and  though  he  attended  lectures  for  five  years, 

1  Life  of  Newman,  page  77. 

*  Beaiichamp'a  Career,  chapter  II. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    291 


he  left  without  a  degree.     Apparently  the  only  university 
study  that  interested  him  was  mathematics. 

For  four  years  he  engaged  in  teaching.     It  was  then  that  he 
met  the  only  intimate  friend  he  ever  had,  Edward  Irving, 
except     for     whom,     said 
Carlyle, 


I  had  never, 
known  what  the  commun- 
ion of  man  with  man 
means."  When  his  family 
wondered  at  his  not  choos- 
ing a  vocation,  he  informed 
them  that  he  was  "  a  stub- 
born dog,"  and  would  in 
the  end  master  fortune. 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle.  — 
In  1821  Carlyle  met,  and  in 
1826  married,  Jane  Welsh, 
"  the  woman  intellectually 
most  suited  to  him  in  all 
Scotland,"  says  one  biog- 
rapher. Spiritually  they 
were  not  so  well  suited  — 
both  were  too  strong.  He, 
pressed  constantly  by  the 
need  for  expression,  gave 
too  little  attention  to  the 
needs    of    his    wife;      and 

after  her  death  he  discovered  in  her  journal  that  she  had 
felt  herself  neglected,  but  had  suffered  in  silence. 

"  The  Voice  of  Scotland  "  Speaks.  —  In  ten  years  from 
1818,  the  year  of  his  removal  to  Edinburgh,  Carlyle  trans- 
lated Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister  and  specimens  of  many  other 


Carlyle. 


292 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


German  writers,  and  did  much  hack-work  for  various  pub- 
lishers. In  1828  came  the  Essay  on  Burns,  nominally  a 
review  of  Lockhart's  life  of  Burns,  which  Carlyle  char- 
acterized as  "  trivial  enough."     Here  spoke  "  the  very  voice 

of  Scotland,"  trying,  it 
said,  "  to  estimate  what 
Burns  really  was  and 
did  for  his  country  and 
the  world." 

From  Dumfriesshire 
to  London.  —  In  the 
same  year,  driven  by 
financial  stress,  the 
Carlyles  moved  from 
Edinburgh  to  a  small 
estate  in  Dumfriesshire 
which  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Carlyle.  After  six  years 
here,  "  the  dreariest 
spot  in  all  the  British 
dominions,"  they  made 
their  last  change  of 
home,  taking  up  their 
residence  at  Cheyne 
Row,  Chelsea,  London. 
In  1836  Sartor  Resartus, 
Carlyle's  monumental  attack  on  the  shams  of  the  day, 
was  published;  in  1837,  The  French  Revolution;  in  1839, 
Chartism,  a  book  demanding  substitution  of  aristocracy 
for  the  existing  government.  During  these  years  he  gave 
several  successful  series  of  lectures  on  German  litera- 
ture,   and  a   series    which    was    published   in    1841    with 


Caklyle's  London  Home. 

In  Chelsea,  famous  as  the  resort  of  many 
literary  men. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    293 

the   title,    On    Heroes,    Hero-Worship,    and  the    Heroic   in 
History. 

Success  —  Financial  and  Personal.  —  At  last  he  had  found 
his  public,  had  indeed  "  mastered  fortune ;  "  and  from  this 
time  he  was  in  receipt  of  a  comfortable  income.  He  also 
began  to  make  friends,  including  Tennyson,  whom  he  de- 
scribed as  "  one  of  the  finest  men  in  the  world,"  and  Dickens, 
"  the  good,  the  gentle,  highly-gifted,  ever-friendly,  noble 
Dickens."  Of  far  more  interest  to  the  student  of  Carlyle 
is  the  friendship  with  Emerson,  begun  by  correspondence 
some  years  before,  and  sealed  during  Emerson's  tour  of 
England  in  1847. 

Frederick  the  Great,  completed  in  six  volumes  in  1865,  was 
his  last  important  work.  In  the  same  year  he  was  elected 
Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  the  only  public 
honor  he  received  from  his  native  country. 

The  Great  Loss.  —  Mrs.  Carlyle's  death  in  1866  was  a  blow 
from  which  he  never  recovered.  Honors  came  to  him  from 
many  directions,  some  of  which  he  declined ;  money  was 
"  superabundant,"  he  said.  But  he  felt  his  loss  deeply ;  and 
the  reading  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's  journal  oppressed  him,  with  its 
revelation  of  the  strong  points  in  her  character  which  he  had 
failed  to  appreciate. 

Carlyle  outlived  his  wife  fifteen  years,  dying  at  the  age  of 
eighty-five.  To  Edinburgh  University  he  left  money  enough 
to  help  ten  students,  the  foundation  being  named  after  his 
wife's  father,  John  Welsh ;  and  to  Harvard  a  large  section  of 
his  library.  By  his  own  express  wish  he  was  buried  at  Eccle- 
fechan. 

Carlyle's  Test  for  Greatness.  —  In  popular  thought  Carlyle 
is  the  worshipper  of  heroes,  and  the  champion  of  his  country. 


294  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

We  have  referred  to  his  two  works  in  behalf  of  Burns's 
reputation.  Scarcely  less  worthy  of  note  is  his  championship 
of  the  character  of  James  Boswell,  so  vigorously  held  up  to 
ridicule  by  Macaulay  a  year  before.  In  this  Carlyle  makes 
good  use  of  an  argument  already  used  in  the  Essay  on  Burns 
and  subsequently  used  in  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship ;  namely, 
that  recognition  of  greatness  implies  the  possession  of  great- 
ness. He  shows  that  if  Boswell  had  been  merely  seeking 
notoriety  there  was  no  more  unlikely  person  for  him  to 
attach  himself  to  than  Samuel  Johnson. 

His  Theory  of  History.  —  Carlyle  is,  however,  undoubtedly 
of  importance  chiefly  as  historian.  His  theory  of  history, 
very  clear  and  positive,  is  set  forth  in  numerous  places. 
"  History,"  he  says  in  the  Essay  on  History,  "  is  the  essence 
of  innumerable  Biographies."  In  the  first  lecture  of  Heroes 
and  Hero-Worship  it  appears  in  these  words :  "  Universal 
History  is  at  bottom  the  History  of  the  Great  Men  who  have 
worked  here."  In  Sartor  Resartus:  "Great  Men  are  the 
inspired  (speaking  and  acting)  Texts  of  that  divine  Book  of 
Revelations,  whereof  a  Chapter  is  completed  from  epoch 
to  epoch,  and  by  some  named  History." 

From  this  it  is  clear  that  to  Carlyle  a  certain  amount  of 
hero-worship  is  necessary  to  write  a  history.  The  outcome  of 
his  method  is  not  a  canvas  like  Macaulay's  giving  a  panoramic 
view  of  the  country  or  period  under  consideration;  but  a 
canvas  from  which  stand  out  a  few  conspicuous  figures. 
Macaulay's  method  is  admirably  adapted  to  such  a  work  as 
his  England  in  1685 — chapter  III  of  the  History  of  England. 

Carlyle's,  however,  is  the  better  to  give  one  a  vivid  con- 
ception of  the  figures  who  dominated  the  scene  in  Paris  from 
1789  to  1795.  In  his  pages  we  come  to  know  Marat  of  the 
"  bleared   soul ;  "    Danton,    "  the   huge,    brawny   figure ;  " 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    295 

Mirabeau,  "  the  world-compeller,"  "  manruling  deputy," 
"  roughest  lion's  whelp  ever  littered  of  that  rough  brood ;  " 
Robespierre,  the  "  greenish-colored  individual ;  "  Lafayette, 
"  whose  name  shall  fill  the  world." 

Carlyle's  Gospel.  —  One  result  of  his  theory  regarding 
history  and  hero-worship  is  what  is  commonly  called  Carlyle's 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Caklyle. 
(British  Museum.) 

"  gospel."  The  essential  stuff  of  all  his  heroes  is  "  sincerity," 
the  quality  that  enabled  them  to  see  into  the  heart  of  things, 
and  made  them  act  "  sincerely  "  on  the  convictions  result- 
ing from  this  seeing.  This  led  him  to  an  outspoken  and 
constantly-emphasized  condemnation  of  sham,  the  preva- 
lence of  which  he  held  responsible  for  most  of  his  country's 
ills. 


296  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Carlyle's  Influence.  —  The  influence  of  Carlyle  has  been 
strong  and  far  reaching.  We  seem  to  see  it  in  Browning's 
Luria; 

"A  people  is  but  the  attempt  of  many 
To  rise  to  the  completer  life  of  one ; 
And  those  who  live  as  models  to  the  mass 
Are  singly  of  more  value  than  they  all." 

It  can  hardly  have  failed  to  influence  Tennyson  in  such 
poems  as  Maud  and  Locksley  Hall,  with  their  notes  of  re- 
beUion  against  "  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living 
truth."  It  was  to  the  influence  of  Carlyle  that  Phillips 
Brooks,  the  great  American  preacher,  and  John  Ruskin, 
perhaps  the  greatest  English  social  reformer  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  attributed  their  determination  to  do  and  he  some- 
thing. 

The  Victorian  Novel 

Although  there  were  a  number  of  poets  of  first  rank  in 
Victorian  England,  the  greatest  achievements  of  the  age 
were  in  prose.  Of  the  two  prose  forms  which  reached  a  high 
development  during  this  period  —  the  novel  and  the  essay 
—  the  first  is  secure  in  its  preeminence.  Essayists  of  the 
eighteenth  century  and  the  Romantic  period  may  challenge 
the  superiority  of  the  later  essayists ;  but  great  as  are  the 
novels  of  Richardson  and  Fielding,  and  of  Jane  Austen  and 
Scott,  it  must  be  admitted  that  in  total  impression  they  fall 
below  the  great  body  of  Victorian  fiction. 

For  this  age  the  novel  surpassed  in  appeal  every  other 
form  of  literature,  because  of  its  greater  capacity  for  giving 
expression  to  the  many-sided  life  of  the  age.  Of  the  Vic- 
torian novelists  listed  in  Baker's  Guide  to  the  Best  Fiction 
(more  than  a  hundred)  twelve  seem  to  stand  out  as  greater 
than  the  rest :   Dickens,  Thackeray,  George  Eliot,  Trollope, 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    297 

Reade,  Kingsley,  the  three  Bronte  sisters,  Stevenson,  George 
Meredith,  and  Thomas  Hardy.  Of  these  the  last  two  have 
never  reached  a  large  audience,  and  hardly  require  to  be  dis- 
cussed in  a  short  history  of  English  literature.  Among  the 
rest  we  must  choose ;  ^  and  we  shall  not  vary  much  from  either 
the  critical  or  the  popular  judgment  in  choosing  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  and  George  Eliot  from  the  realists.  Stevenson 
must  hold  a  place  as  the  inaugurator  of  the  reaction  from 
realism  and  the  return  to  romance. 

CHARLES   DICKENS,    1812-1870 

It  has  been  said  that  whenever  literary  London  gets  very 
dull  somebody  revives  either  the  Bacpn-Shakspere  con- 
troversy or  the  reason  of  Dickens's  popularity.  The  ques- 
tions, "  Did  Bacon  write  Shakspere?  "  and  "  Why  was  Dick- 
ens popular?  "  are  similar  in  their  entire  absurdity.  A 
reading  of  Bacon's  essay  Of  Love  and  Shakspere's  Romeo 
and  Jidiet  should  answer  the  first ;  a  reading  of  Oliver  Twist, 
or  David  Copperfield,  or  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  or  Nicholas 
Nicklehy,  or  any  of  six  or  eight  other  novels  of  Dickens 
should  answer  the  second. 

Dickens's  People.  —  Dickens  was  interested  in  people,  so 
much  interested  that  by  the  creations  in  his  stories  he  added 
largely  to  the  population  of  the  world,  especially  that  of 
England.  This  interest  led  to  his  career  as  reformer,  to 
his  humanitarianism,  his  continued  efforts  to  improve  the 
condition  of  the  poor  and  down-trodden.  All  the  country 
was  waking  to  the  need  of  reforming  prisons  and  workhouses, 
and    of    abolishing    the   slums   of   London;    and    through 

1  The  writers  omitted  here  are  briefly  characterized  in  the  supplement- 
ary list,  pages  374-379. 


298 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Dickens,  says  Professor  Cross/  "  spoke  the  heart  and  con- 
science of  Britain." 

One  important  quality  for  his  work  which  he  possessed 
and  used  with  great  effect,  was  humor^  A  host  of  humorous 
figures  he  created;  and  at  least  a  hundred  of  them  are 
familiar  to  all  who  claim  to  be  well-read  in  English  literature. 
The  tone  of  his  humor  is  suggested  by  his  great  rival,  Thack- 


iiula.U.  c^W^/nu^  k^u^a 


^ 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Dickens. 
(New  York  Public  Library.) 

eray :  "  I  am  grateful  for  the  innocent  laughter  and  the  sweet 
and  unsullied  page  which  the  author  of  David  Copperfield 
gives  to  my  children." 

Early  Life.  —  Dickens's  early  life  contained  very  little 
in  the  way  of  preparation  for  a  great  career.  He  was  born 
in  Portsmouth,  where  his  father,  John  Dickens,  was  a  navy- 
yard  clerk.     The  senior  Dickens  was  a  poor  financier;   and 


Devdopment  of  the  English  Novel,  page  183. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    299 

after  several  not  helpful  moves  found  himself  and  his  family 
located  in  a  wretched  part  of  London.  While  Charles  was 
still  a  child,  his  father  was  imprisoned  for  debt,  leaving  him 
to  earn  a  living  as  best  he  could.  Following  his  custom  of 
turning  personal  experiences  to  account  in  novels,  he  has 
left  in  the  early  chapters  of  David  Copperfield  a  record  of 
these  miserable  days. 


One  of  Several  "Originals." 

Beginnings  of  Authorship.  —  When  John  Dickens's  for- 
tunes improved,  Charles  obtained  a  few  years'  schooling. 
His  real  education,  however,  came  from  the  London  streets 
and  from  his  work  as  a  newspaper  reporter,  out  of  which  grew 
his  first  independent  writing.  Sketches  by  Boz,  published  in 
periodicals  in  1835-1836.  From  the  success  of  this  venture 
came  his  first  long  fiction,  Pickwick  Papers.     Dickens  was 


300  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

engaged  to  write  "something"  to  accompany  drawings  by 
one  Robert  Seymour.  When,  however,  Seymour  died  after 
eight  drawings  were  pubHshed,  the  fame  of  the  stories  which 
the  "  something  "  had  become  was  great,  and  Dickens  was 
empowered  to  secure  an  artist  to  illustrate  them. 

Variety  of  Work.  —  Oliver  Twist  appeared  in  1837-1838, 
Nicholas  Nicklehy  in  1838-1839 ;  and  in  the  remainder  of 
his  life  he  wrote  twelve  other  novels,  some  verse,  The  Child's 
History  of  England,  and  two  Christmas  stories  of  enduring 
charm  —  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  and  A  Christmas  Carol. 
In  1842  Dickens  visited  the  United  States  on  a  lecture 
tour.  He  was  disappointed  at  not  finding  "  the  republic 
of  [his]  imagination ;  "  and  on  his  return  to  England  pub- 
lished two  books  satirizing  the  land  that  had  welcomed  him 
heartily. 

Married  Life.  —  The  novelist's  home  was  not  happy.  In 
1836  he  married  Catharine  Hogarth,  but  soon  discovered 
that  they  were  "  strangely  ill-assorted."  After  twenty  years 
of  unsuccessful  efforts  at  living  together,  they  agreed  to 
separate.  He  had  already  purchased  Gad's  Hill,  an  es- 
tate about  twenty  miles  from  London  on  the  Canterbury- 
road;  and  he  took  up  his  residence  there  shortly  after  the 
separation. 

Last  Years.  —  Early  in  his  period  of  residence  at  Gad's 
Hill,  Dickens  began  to  give  public  readings  from  his  works. 
He  travelled  much  for  this  purpose,  not  only  in  England  but 
also  in  America,  and  was  well  received  everywhere.  Though 
he  was  not  an  old  man,  and  though  he  was  in  reasonably 
good  health,  the  work  required  too  great  effort.  He  died 
suddenly  at  Gad's  Hill  in  June,  1870,  and  was  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    301 

Some  acquaintance  with  the  novels  of  Dickens  has  for  so 
long  been  considered  a  part  of  even  the  average  child's  in- 
tellectual equipment,  that  it  seems  almost  unnecessary  to 
characterize  him.  It  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  the  aver- 
age reader  does  not  always  get  all  he  could  (and  should)  from 
Dickens.  A  few  hints  may  therefore  be  given  to  show  the 
best  he  stands  for. 


^                     J>^. 

wammi^^^^m^. 

1 
1 

■mm-  igUM£  m 

''^'iP 

III  i 

Fj 

y  1    1  .^biittiti|.ii 

1     itoiILI™''""^'' 

1^  ^^"^•^^'^H5^^ 

r  , 

''mm 

Dickens's  Library  at  Gad's  Hill. 


Dickens's  Pathos.  —  The  taste  that  is  touched  by  the 
death-scenes  of  Dickens  is  hardly  a  healthy  one,  is  certainly 
not  a  cultured  one.  Not  that  the  death  of  Little  Nell  in 
Old  Curiosity  Shop  has  not  in  it  the  possibility  of  pathos 
—  it  has.  So  has  the  death  of  Paul  in  Dombey  and  Son. 
The  trouble  is  the  deliberateness  with  which  the  novelist 


302  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

sets  out  to  make  us  weep,  not  unlike  the  manner  of  the 
typical  evangeUst  who  tells  harrowing  tales  to  bring  weeping 
crowds  to  the  "  mourners'  bench." 

His  Plots.  —  A  thoughtful  reader  will  find  little  to  praise 
in  Dickens's  plots,  which  are  as  a  rule  artificial,  melodra- 
matic, and  marked  by  repeated  abuses  of  coincidence.  These 
characteristics  are  frequently  shown  in  his  conclusions,  such 
as  notably  that  of  David  Copperfield,  where  all  the  still  liv- 
ing villains  of  the  story  are  assembled  in  a  prison  which 
David  happens  to  visit.  Other  faults  might  readily  be 
pointed  out ;  but  these  are  sufficient  as  "  hints  "  of  short- 
comings, and  it  is  more  desirable  to  indicate  qualities  of 
another  sort. 

Pictures  of  Contemporary  Life.  —  As  a  portrayer  of  con- 
temporary life  and  manners,  Dickens  has  not  been  surpassed. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  more  successful  in  handling 
the  lower  walks  of  life  than  the  upper;  but  so,  for  that 
matter,  was  the  aristocratic  Sir  Walter.  Oliver  Twist  gives 
a  quite  convincing  picture  of  the  underworld  in  London ; 
Nicholas  Nicklehy,  of  a  large  class  of  abominable  schools  for 
boys ;  Bleak  House,  of  the  tedious  procedure  of  English 
courts.  Exaggeration  there  is  perhaps  in  all ;  but  they 
remain  in  essentials  true  to  conditions  existing  in  his  day. 

Dickens's  Humor.  —  Nearly  all  the  good  things  one 
might  say  about  Dickens  may  be  covered  by  a  phrase  ap- 
plied to  him  by  Andrew  Lang — "  the  greatest  comic  genius 
of  modern  times."-  His  humorous  figures,  though  here  also 
his  proneness  to  exaggeration  must  be  admitted,  are  an  un- 
failing source  of  wholesome  delight.  The  method,  carica- 
ture as  it  is  commonly  called,  "  the  heightening  of  non-es- 
sential characteristics,"  may  seem  simple ;  but  though  other 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    303 


great  novelists'  have  used  it  at  times,  they  have  proved  un- 
equal to  the  accomplishment  of  Dickens.  Uncle  Pullet  in 
George  Eliot's  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  might  almost  be  called 
"  the  man  with  the  lozenges."  Dalgetty,  in  Scott's  The 
Legend  of  Montrose,  is 
marked  invariably  by 
boasting  of  his  horse 
or  his  college.  George 
Osborne,  in  Thack- 
eray's Vanity  Fair,  is 
adequately  summed  up 
in  Becky  Sharp's  nick- 
name "  Cupid."  What 
other  writers  did  well 
occasionally,  Dickens 
did  repeatedly  with  al- 
most uniform  success. 

The  Dickens  Gallery. 
— What  has  this  method 
given  us  ?  The  Dickens 
"  gallery  "  is  very  ex- 
tensive, and  one  knows 
not  where  to  select. 
In  David  Copperfield 
there  are  Micawber  the 
impecunious  but  ver- 
bally grandiloquent, 
"waiting  for  something 
to  turn  up ;  "  Uriah  Heep,  of  the  "  clammy  fingers,"  the 
"  writhing  body,"  and  the  "  'umble  "  pretensions ;  Miss 
Betsey  Trotwood,  with  an  antipathy  to  donkeys ;  Mr.  Dick, 
the   weak-minded    one   who,    despite    Charles    the    First's 


Sairey  Gamp  and  Betsey  Prig  Taking 
Tea. 

Two  famous  characters  in  Dickens's 
Martin  Chuzzlewit. 


304  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

head,  has  sense  enough  to  use  his  lack  of  sense  to  great 
advantage.  Oliver  Twist  contributes  chiefly  to  the  rogues' 
gallery ;  but  the  Jew  Fagan,  the  Artful  Dodger,  the  per- 
sonification of  cruelty  called  Bill  Sikes,  and  his  loving, 
faithful  companion  Nancy,  are  unforgettable.  Squeers,  the 
schoolmaster,  in  Nicholas  Nickleby;  Mr.  Pumblechook,  the 
self-styled  victim  of  ingratitude  in  Great  Expectations; 
Sairey  Gamp,  the  honest  ( ?)  nurse,  friend  of  "  Mrs. 
Harris,"  in  Martin  Chuzzlevnt  —  the  list  might  be  continued 
into  the  hundreds. 

The  Debt  of  Gratitude  Due  Dickens.  —  Most  eulogies  on 
Dickens,  as  Mr.  Chesterton  has  said,  are  bad ;  criticism  of 
his  characters  must  necessarily  be  inadequate.  "  Real  pri- 
mary creation,"  says  this  eminently  successful  eulogist  of 
Dickens,  "  calls  forth  not  criticism,  not  appreciation,  but  a 
kind  of  incoherent  gratitude."  And  gratitude  is  the  feeling 
expressed  by  Thackeray  in  the  passage  quoted  above.  Dick- 
ens's scenes  of  pathos  may  be  too  manifestly  moist,  his 
plots  may  be  melodramatic,  his  characters  and  incidents 
may  show  exaggeration  and  too  much  coincidence ;  but  these 
defects  are  of  little  weight  in  the  scales  when  the  "  innocent 
laughter  and  the  sweet  and  unsullied  page  "  are  set  over 
agaitist  them. 

GEORGE   ELIOT,    1819-1880 

When  George  Eliot  arrived  in  this  world,  her  father 
recorded  the  event  in  his  diary  as  the  birth  of  "Mary 
Ann  Evans."  She  preferred  to  write  herself  "  Marian ; " 
and  when  her  first  piece  of  fiction  appeared,  the  name  at- 
tached as  author  was  that  by  which  she  is  best  known  — 
"  George  Eliot."  Her  choice  of  a  masculine  pen-name  was  due 
to  a  feeling  that  the  public  would  look  askance  at  the  sort  of 
story  she  wrote  if  the  author  were  known  to  be  a  woman. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    305 

Education.  —  She  was  born  at  Arbury  Farm,  Warwick- 
shire, the  "  heart  of  England."  She  came  of  good  stock  not 
highly  cultured ;  and  her  own  formal  education  was  limited  to 
town  schools  in  her  native  county,  which  she  attended 
until  she  was  twelve  years  old.  While  she  was  still 
a  girl,  the  death  of  her  mother  made  her  the  housekeeper. 
Though  further  schooling  was  out  of  the  question,  she  con- 


Arbury  Farm,  Warwickshire. 
Birthplace  of  George  Eliot. 

tinned  studying  by  herself.  There  is  hardly  a  novel  of  hers 
which  does  not  show  good  results  from  her  labor  in  this 
line ;  for  one  is  usually  impressed,  not  merely  by  her  masterly 
portrayal  of  English  life  and  people,  but  by  the  extent  of  her 
information. 

Religion.  —  When  she  was  twenty-one,  she  and  her  father 
moved  to  Coventry,  an  important  event  in  her  life  because 


306  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

of  associations  formed  there.  Under  the  influence  of  a 
family  named  Bray,  she  became  a  sceptic,  and  stopped  going 
to  church.  One  of  the  strongest  evidences  of  George  Ehot's 
breadth  is  her  sympathetic  presentation  of  rehgious  char- 
acters so  utterly  unlike  herself  as  Dolly  Winthrop  in  Silas 
Mamer  and  Dinah  Morris  in  Adam  Bede.  Her  first  publi- 
cations were  translations  of  German  works  dealing  with 
religion  —  Strauss 's  Life  of  Jesus,  and  Feuerbach's  Essence 
of  Christianity. 

Influence  of  Mr.  Lewes.  —  In  1851  she  became  assistant 
editor  of  the  Westminster  Review.  Through  this  connection 
she  met  George  Henry  Lewes,  to  whom  she  was  united  three 
years  later.  At  Lewes's  suggestion  she  attempted  a  work  of 
fiction;  and  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  for  January,  1857, 
appeared  the  first  instalment  of  The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev. 
Amos  Barton,  published  the  next  year  with  two  other  stories 
as  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  The  volume  was  well  received ; 
and  of  all  the  critics  who  reviewed  it,  only  Charles  Dickens 
suspected  that  the  author  was  a  woman.  If  he  was  mis- 
taken, said  he,  "  no  man  ever  before  had  the  art  of  making 
himself  so  like  a  woman  since  the  world  began." 

"  Adam  Bede  "  and  its  Source.  —  In  these  stories  the 
author  drew  largely  from  Warwickshire,  using  real  incidents 
as  well  as  real  persons  and  places.  Though  in  her  first  novel, 
Adam  Bede,  which  came  out  the  year  after  Scenes,  she  again 
drew  on  the  same  stock,  she  avoided  so  faithful  a  portraiture. 
The  closeness  to  fact  of  the  short  stories  seemed  to  her  a 
mistake,  and  was,  she  admitted,  due  to  inexperience.  The 
hero  of  Adam  Bede  was  taken  to  some  extent  from  the  au- 
thor's father,  Robert  Evans,  though  he  is  not  a  portrait. 
Dinah  Morris  was  modeled  after  an  aunt  of  George  Eliot's, 
and  Mrs.  Poyser  has  some  characteristics  that  came  from 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    307 

George  Eliot's  mother.     Adam  Bedc  fixed  the  author's  place 
as  one  of  the  leading  novelists  of  England,  and  must  have 

convinced  her  that  her  "  besetting  sin  "   was  gratified 

"  ambition  —  a  desire  insatiable  for  the  esteem  of  my  fel- 
low-creatures." 

Two  More  Warwickshire  Novels.  —  Two  other  novels  of 
the  same  general  type  followed,  in  which  characters  and 


*y  /fUK     ^^      c-^^y'    '^■"^     a-ttj-jC    Af'Zi^     t^mZ^d. 


Facsimile  of  George  Eliot's  Handwriting. 

Dedication  of  the  MS.  of  Adam  Bede  to  her  husband. 

(British  Museum.) 

scenes  came  from  the  middle-class  country  life  she  knew  so 
well.  These  were  The  Mill  mi  the  Floss,  and  Silas  Mamer. 
In  the  first  of  these  she  pictured  herself  in  her  heroine  Maggie 
Tulliver,  not,  indeed,  as  regards  outward  events,  but  most 
truly  as  regards  the  "  inward  life,"  the  character.  "  The 
need  of  being  loved  "  was  "  the  strongest  need  in  Maggie's 
nature ; "  Maggie  had  a  wonderful  imagination.  Philip 
Wakem  caught  in  her  eyes  a  look  of  "  unsatisfied  intelligence, 


308  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  unsatisfied,  beseeching  affection,"  such  as  would  have 
been  her  lot  had  she  remained  in  her  early  surroundings. 
Silas  Marner,  her  most  widely  read  book,  is  a  charming 
story  "  setting  in  a  strong  light  the  remedial  influences  of 
pure  natural  human  relations,"  influences  brought  to  bear 
by  a  little  child  upon  a  man  who  has  utterly  lost  faith  in  his 
kind. 

Change  in  Subject  and  Method.  —  In  Romola,  published 
1863,  the  author  showed  a  great  change.  It  is  not  so  much 
that  the  time  and  place  are  vastly  different,  though  there  is 
an  immense  gap  between  England  of  the  nineteenth  century 
and  Florence  of  the  fifteenth,  the  day  of  Savonarola  and 
Lorenzo  de  Medici.  The  more  vital  change  was  in  her 
method,  which  from  this  time  on  was  minute,  exhaustive 
analysis  of  human  souls  passing  through  great  crises. 

Studies  in  the  Evolution  of  Character.  —  The  same  sort  of 
subject  and  method  she  used  in  three  more  novels  —  Felix 
Holt,  Middlemarch,  and  Daniel  Deronda.  The  first  is,  com- 
paratively speaking,  a  failure,  and  the  last  is  in  the  opinion 
of  most  readers  inferior  to  her  earlier  volumes.  The  setting 
of  Middlemarch,  a  provincial  English  town,  is  similar  to  that 
in  Silas  Marner  and  The  Mill  on  the  Floss;  but  the  real  sub- 
ject is,  as  in  all  of  this  group,  the  ruin  of  a  human  soul  under 
temptations  too  great  for  it  to  bear. 

Last  Years.  —  In  1878  Mr.  Lewes  died,  and  eighteen  months 
later  George  Eliot  married  Mr.  J.  W.  Cross.  She  died  only 
a  few  months  after  this  second  union ;  and  Mr.  Cross's  ac- 
count of  her  burial  gives  another  indication  of  how  truly  she 
had  gained  the  esteem  of  her  fellow-creatures.  "  In  sleet, 
in  snow,"  he  tells  us,  "  on  a  bitter  day  —  the  29th  December 
—  very  many  whom  she  knew,  very  many  whom  she  did  not 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    309 


know,  pressed  to  her  grave-side  with  tributes  of  tears  and 
flowers." 

Character-Drawing.  —  If  one  feature  of  George  Eliot's 
work  stands  out  more  conspicuously  than  others,  it  is  her 
power  in  character- 
drawing.  She  has  not 
added  so  many  figures 
to  our  everyday  think- 
ing as  has  Dickens ; 
but  she  has  added  many 
whose  place  is  as  secure 
as  are  those  of  Bill 
Sikes,  Squeers,  Uriah 
Heep,  and  IVIr.  Micaw- 
ber. 

Characters  in  "  Silas 
Marner."— Dolly  Win- 
throp,  the  blacksmith's 
wife  in  Silas  Marner, 
is  a  very  real  person. 
In  referring  to  God, 
she  always  used  the 
plural  pronoun,  "  which 
was  no  heresy  of  Dolly's, 
but  only  her  way  of  avoiding  a  presumptuous  familiarity." 
Her  simplicity,  straightforwardness,  and  understanding  of 
human  nature  made  her  a  mountain  of  strength  to  Silas  in 
his  times  of .  perplexity .  The  group  of  minor  figures  that 
give  us  the  life  of  Raveloe  village,  including  the  butcher,  the 
landlord,  the  parish  clerk,  the  farrier,  the  doctor,  have  not 
been  surpassed  by  any  author  since  Chaucer  created  his 
pilgrims. 


George  Eliot. 
From  the  portrait  by  Durade. 


310  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Characters  in  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss."  —  The  Mill  on 
the  Floss  contributes  several  portraits  to  what  might  be  called 
"the  Eliot  gallery."  The  heroine,  Maggie  Tulliver;  Mr. 
Tulliver,  whose  misfortunes  all  arise  from  his  inability  to 
cope  with  "  a  puzzling  world ;  "  Bob  Jakin,  "  a  person  sus- 
pected of  preternatural  wickedness,"  but  showing  himself 
a  boy  of  sterling  worth  and  a  stanch  friend  to  one  in  dis- 
tress; and  the  aunts  and  uncles,  who  disapproved  of  Mrs. 
TuUiver's  marriage  and  of  her  every  action  since;  Mr. 
Stelling  the  tutor,  and  Mr.  Poulter  the  village  schoolmaster 
—  these  and  several  other  clearly  drawn  figures  make  the 
novel  a  great  work  of  art. 

Her  Triumph  in  Creation  —  Mrs.  Poyser.  —  Undoubtedly 
her  best  creation,  however,  is  Mrs.  Poyser  in  Adam  Bede. 
This  lady  is  herself  a  genius  at  characterization ;  and  not  a 
few  persons  in  the  story  are  almost  as  well  portrayed  by  her 
in  a  sentence  or  two  as  they  are  by  the  author  otherwise  in 
a  page  or  two.  Of  Mr.  Craig,  the  gardener,  Mrs.  Poyser 
declared  she  had  "  nothing  to  say  again'  him,  on'y  it  was  a 
pity  he  couldna  be  hatched  o'er  again,  an'  hatched  differ- 
ent." Dinah  Morris  she  summarized  perfectly  in  a  sen- 
tence :  "  She's  one  o'  them  things  as  looks  the  brightest  on 
a  rainy  day,  and  loves  you  the  best  when  you're  most  i' 
need  on't."  Herself  she  also  put  into  brief  space  :  "  There's 
no  pleasure  i'  living,  if  you're  to  be  corked  up  for  ever,  and 
only  dribble  your  mind  out  by  the  sly,  like  a  leaky  barrel." 

Mrs.  Poyser  is  characterized  by  the  author  by  direct 
methods  within  twenty-five  pages  after  she  is  introduced. 
She  was  "  remarkable  for  the  facility  with  which  she  could 
relapse  from  her  official  objurgatory  tone  to  one  of  fondness 
or  of  friendly  converse."  In  speaking  to  Dinah  she  fell  in  a 
moment  "  from  the  key  of  B  with  five  sharps  to  the  frank 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    311 

and  genial  C."  "  The  confidence  she  felt  in  her  own  powers 
of  exposition  was  a  motive  force  that  overcame  all  resistance." 
There  are  other  well-drawn  characters  in  Adam  Bede;  there 
are  fine  descriptions  and  strikingly  told  incidents;  but  for 
most  readers  the  book  is  Mrs.  Poyser. 

A  Supreme  Realist.  —  When  an  author  gives  us  characters 
that  seem  to  us  like  real  people ;  and  when  he  represents  them 
as  thinking  and  acting  as  such  people  would  think  and  act,  we 
call  that  author  a  realist.  Such  an  author  George  Eliot  is, 
in  the  highest  degree.  She  aims  to  give,  using  her  own  words, 
"  a  faithful  account  of  men  and  things  as  they  have  mirrored 
themselves  in  my  mind."  She  is  content,  she  says,  "  to  tell 
my  simple  story,  without  trying  to  make  things  seem  better 
than  they  were ;  dreading  nothing,  indeed,  but  falsity,  which, 
in  spite  of  one's  best  efforts,  there  is  reason  to  dread.  False- 
hood is  so  easy,  truth  so  difficult."  The  continued  wide 
popularity  of  these  stories  of  Warwickshire  village  life  is 
abundant  evidence  that  she  attained  her  object. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY,    1811-1863 

Childhood  and  Education. — Thackeray  was  born  in  Cal- 
cutta, where  his  father  and  both  his  grandfathers  were  in  the 
civil  service.  When  he  was  five  years  old,  his  father  died ; 
and  some  years  later  his  mother  married  a  Major  Smith, 
with  whom  he  was  on  the  best  of  terms  till  the  major's 
death.  When  quite  young  he  was  brought  to  England 
and  entered  the  Charterhouse  School,  famous  as  the  school 
of  many  great  men,  including  Addison  and  Steele,  of  whom 
Thackeray  wrote  with  such  understanding  and  affection.* 
He  did  not  distinguish  himself  either  at  school,  or  at  Trinity 

» In  Hmry  Esmond  and  The  English  Humourists. 


312 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


College,  Cambridge,  where  he  was  registered  for  something 
less  than  two  years. 

Student  of  Law  and  Art.  —  Having  inherited  a  fortune, 
Thackeray  was  not  at  first  forced  to  work  for  a  living.     He 

read  law,  with  no  defi- 
nite plans  for  practis- 
ing. Then  losing  his 
fortune,  chiefly  through 
unwise  investments,  he 
took  to  writing  for 
newspapers,  studied  art 
in  Paris,  and  served  as 
correspondent  of  a  Lon- 
don journal.  One  of 
the  stock  stories  of 
Thackeray  is  that  of 
his  endeavor  to  succeed 
Seymour,  as  illustrator 
of  Pickwick  Papers, 
and  being  refused. 
Dickens  found  his  pub- 
lic early;  but  Thack- 
eray had  to  toil  many  years  without  recognition. 

Marriage,  and  Family.  —  In  1836  Thackeray  married  Miss 
Isabella  Shawe.  After  a  few  years,  Mrs.  Thackeray  went 
through  a  severe  illness,  and  shortly  after  became  insane.  He 
took  her  the  length  and  breadth  of  Europe  consulting  special- 
ists, but  without  success  ;  and  seven  years  after  his  marriage 
he  was  living  in  London  without  her.  Of  his  three  daughters, 
one  died  in  childhood;  one  married  Sir  Leslie  Stephen, 
biographer  and  essayist ;  and  the  third,  Mrs.  Anne  Thackeray 
Ritchie,  attained  a  distinguished  place  in  the  world  of  letters. 


Bust  op  Thackeray  by  Marochetti. 
In  Westminster  Abbey. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    313 


The  Climb  to  Fame.  —  After  Thackeray's  first  volume, 
The  Memoirs  of  Mr.  Charles  J.  Yellowplush,  1837,  which 
purported  to  be  a  footman's  opinions  on  life  in  genteel 
families,  he  for  ten  years  did  hack  writing  for  the  magazines, 
and  remained  an  unknown  figure.  His  day  of  triumph  came 
in  1847-1848  wheil  Vanity  Fair,  refused  by  several  magazines, 
appeared  in  twenty- 
four  monthly  numbers. 
His  literary  success  was 
followed  by  a  great 
social  success;  he  was 
feted  and  dined  on  all 
sides,  including  that 
very  society  which  he 
had  satirized  in  most 
masterly  and  unsparing 
fashion.  Between  1848 
and  1855  he  wrote  the 
three  other  novels 
which,  with  Vanity 
Fair,  constitute  his 
chief  claim  to  distinc- 
tion :  Pendennis,  in 
which  is  found  not  a 
little  autobiography ; 
Henry  Esmond,  per- 
haps the  best  portrayal 
of  the  early  eighteenth- 
century  England  so  dear  to  him  ;  and  The  Newcomes,  a  social 
satire  as  severe  as  Vanity  Fair. 


Vanity  IXiR. 


PEN   tJHO   PENOIl.  SKETCHES  OF   ENQUSH  SOCIETy 


BY   W.    M.   THACKERAY. 


LONDON 
PUWJSffEP  AT  THK  M'NCH  OfTiCK,  84.  FLtET  sraKET 


Facsimile  of  Cover  of  the  First 
Number  of  Vanity  Fair. 


The  Lectures.  —  During  these  years  of  success  as  novelist 
Thackeray  delivered  in  London,   Oxford,   Edinburgh,   and 


314  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

America,  a  series  of  lectures  on  The  English  Humourists  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century.  Using  the  word  "  humourist  "  in 
a  very  broad  sense,  he  treated  twelve  men,  among  them  five 
authors  included  in  this,  history  —  Swift,  Addison,  Steele, 
Pope,  Goldsmith.  After  being  well  received  in  America  in 
1852-1853,  he  returned  thither  three  years  later  with  a 
series  of  lectures  on  The  Four  Georges.  He  made  a  most 
agreeable  impression  on  American  audiences,  and  was  pleased 
with  his  reception ;  and  unlike  Dickens  he  did  not  find  it 
necessary  to  condemn  in  satire  any  shortcomings  he  found 
among  us. 

Thackeray  wrote  several  other  novels,  which  fall  below 
the  four  noted  above.  One,  however,  The  Virginians,  a 
sequel  to  Henry  Esmond,  has  merits  which  make  it  a  close 
second  to  the  group  of  masterpieces. 

Ballads  and  Essays.  —  Besides  novels  and  lectures  Thack- 
eray wrote  many  ballads,  and  a  number  of  essays  which  may 
be  described  in  general  as  of  the  Spectator  type.  They  were 
called  Roundabout  Papers,  and  range  in  subjects  from  On 
a  Lazy  Idle  Boy,  a  page  of  autobiography,  to  Nil  Nisi 
Bonum,  criticism  of  Irving  and  Macaulay,  who  had  recently 
died.  Of  the  ballads  doubtless  the  best  known  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  best  is  The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  celebrat- 
ing "  a  noble  dish  —  a  sort  of  soup  or  broth,"  for  which  a 
Parisian  restaurant  was  famous. 

Death.  —  After  being  in  ill  health  for  a  number  of  years, 
Thackeray  died  December  24,  1863.  A  misunderstanding 
which  had  estranged  him  from  Dickens  for  several  years 
was  removed  before  his  death ;  and  only  a  few  days  before 
the  end  Dickens  was  a  visitor  at  Thackeray's  home,  Palace 
Green,  talking  over  plans  for  the  future. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    315 

Thackeray's  Attitude  toward  his  Material.  —  Although 
it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  say  that  Thackeray  has 
created  no  notable  characters,  it  must  be  admitted  that 


tuiL  wu^*^  ^^*^^  I**  Y^t*  ^'^    '^<^**^  w  <(m.  i 


Facsimile  of  a  Letter  of  Thackeray. 

Expressing  a  strong,  adverse  judgment  on  two  great  English  writers. 
(British  Museum.) 

his  greatest  strength  does  not  lie  in  character-drawing. 
From  Vanity  Fair  we  remember  very  distinctly  Becky  Sharp, 
Dobbin,  Mr.  Osborne,  the  Marquis  of  Steyne,  and  other 
individuals ;  but  our  strongest  impression  of  it  is,  using  the 
author's  words,  as  a  "  Comic  History,"  in  which  most  in- 


316  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

dividuals  are  lost  in  the  crowd.     "  Who  is  ever  missed  in 
Vanity  Fair  ?  "  asks  the  author. 

His  Method.  —  In  a  sort  of  preface,  "  Before  the  Curtain," 
Thackeray  pretends  that  Vanity  Fair  is  a  puppet  show, 
and  that  he  manipulates  the  wires  moving  "  the  famous 
Httle  Becky  Puppet,"  "  the  Amelia  Doll,"  "  the  Dobbin 
Figure,"  and  so  on.  Most  of  his  characters,  he  admits,  are 
"  Faithless,  Hopeless,  Charityless ;  "  and  of  his  method  of 
dealing  with  them  he  says :  "  Some  there  are,  and  very 
successful,  too,  mere  quacks  and  fools  :  and  it  was  to  combat 
and  expose  such  as  those,  no  doubt,  that  Laughter  was  made." 

Belief  in  his  Calling.  —  The  satirist  professes  himself, 
then,  a  teacher,  a  moralist.  In  a  lecture  on  Charity  and 
Humour,  he  asserts  that  his  motives  are  of  the  best ;  and  it 
is  in  the  light  of  this  assertion  that  we  must  view  his  labors 
in  fiction. 

"To  describe  what  I  see  otherwise  than  it  seems  to  me  would 
be  falsehood  in  that  calling  in  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
place  me ;  treason  to  that  conscience  which  says  that  men  are 
weak,  that  truth  must  be  told,  that  faults  must  be  owned,  that 
pardon  must  be  prayed  for,  and  that  love  reigns  supreme  over  all." 

The  reader  who  would  enjoy  Thackeray  must  see  the  man 
in  his  pages  as  well  as  the  artist.  He  will  then,  we  believe, 
reach  the  conclusion  of  one  admirer,  that  Thackeray  "  must 
survive  with  Shakespeare  and  Cervantes,  in  the  memory  and 
affections  of  men." 

THOMAS   HENRY  HUXLEY,    1825-1895 

The  Scientist  as  Man  of  Letters.  —  If  the  scientific  spirit 
did,  as  has  been  said,  in  these  pages,  affect  every  form  of 
expression  in  the  Victorian  Age,  it  is  only  reasonable  that 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    317 


science  as  such  should  be  represented  in  a  history  of  Vic- 
torian hterature.  Of  the  many  scientists  whose  writings 
are  entitled  to  a  place  in  literature,  we  shall  now  take  up  the 
one  who  is  by  well-nigh  universal  consent  placed  at  the  top 
—  Thomas  Henry  Huxley. 

An  Ideal  and  its  Pursuit.  —  The  story  of  his  attaining  so 
high  a  place  is  the  story  of  a  high  ideal,  and  the  consistent 
pursuit  of  it.  No  state- 
ment on  this  point  can  be 
as  good  as  his  own,  near 
the  close  of  his  brief  auto- 
biographical sketch,  writ- 
ten in  1889. 

"If  I  may  speak  of  the 
objects  I  have  had  more  or 
less  definitely  in  view  since 
I  began  the  ascent  of  my 
hillock,  they  are  briefly  these : 
To  promote  the  increase  of 
natural  knowledge  and  to 
forward  the  application  of 
scientific  methods  of  investi- 
gation to  all  the  problems  of 
life  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
in  the  conviction  which  has 
grown  with  my  growth  and 

strengthened  with  my  strength,  that  there  is  no  alleviation  for 
the  sufferings  of  mankind  except  veracity  of  thought  and  of 
action,  and  the  resolute  facing  of  the  world  as  it  is  when  the 
garment  of  make-believe  by  which  pious  hands  have  hidden 
its  uglier  featxures  is  stripped  off." 

The  facts  of  Huxley's  life,  except  his  lectures  and  writings, 
are  of  no  great  significance  to  the  present  volume,  and 
few  need  be  recorded.     If  we  had  space  to  give  his  auto- 


HUXLEY. 


318  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

biography  entire,  a  dozen  lines  would  suffice  to  fill  out  the 
sketch. 

Education.  —  He  was  born  in  Ealing,  now  a  suburb  of 
London.  He  had  practically  no  formal  schooling,  and  in 
the  opinion  of  many  owed  the  public  an  apology  for  his 
idleness.  Had  he  written  such,  it  would  have  been  properly 
a  copy  of  Stevenson's  Apology  for  Idlers;  for,  like  Stevenson, 
he  was  intent  on  some  very  important  business  of  his  own. 
Thwarted  in  his  desire  to  be  a  mechanical  engineer,  he  took 
up  the  study  of  medicine.  The  aspect  of  his  profession  that 
most  appealed  to  him  was  not  at  all  the  art  of  healing.  He 
says,  "  The  only  part  of  my  professional  course  which 
really  and  deeply  interested  me  was  physiology,  which  is  the 
mechanical  engineering  of  living  machines." 

Success.  —  In  1845  he  published  his  first  scientific  paper, 
in  the  Medical  Gazette  :  "  On  a  Hitherto  Undescribed  Struc- 
ture in  the  Human  Hair  Sheath."  He  wished  to  pursue  the 
study  of  science  rather  than  to  practise  medicine;  but  he 
had  to  wait  nine  long  years  before  a  paying  position  came 
to  him.  Then  he  secured  several  lecturing  appointments, 
including  one  in  St.  Thomas's  Hospital  and  one  in  a  govern- 
ment scientific  school ;  and  with  this  competency  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Henrietta  Heathorn,  an  Australian  girl  to  whom 
he  had  been  betrothed  for  eight  years.  In  the  succeeding 
five  years  he  began  his  lectures  to  workingmen,  which  contain 
much  of  his  finest  writing. 

Champion  of  Evolution.  —  When  Darwin's  Origin  of 
Species  (1859)  set  the  nation  by  the  ears,  and  was  vigorously 
attacked  from  every  direction,  Huxley  came  out  as  its  chief 
defender.  Among  the  "  other  ends  "  to  which  he  subor- 
dinated his  ambition  for  scientific  fame  he  mentions :    "  to 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    319 

the  endless  series  of  battles  and  skirmishes  over  evolution." 
Probably  no  other  individual  has  done  so  much  as  Huxley 
to  establish  in  men's  minds  the  theory  of  evolution;  not 
Darwinism,  but  evolution  in  its  broadest  meaning. 

American    Addresses.  —  Huxley     travelled    much  —  for 
health,   for  recreation,  for  scientific  research.     One  of  his 


Huxley's  Last  Home. 
Near  Bournemouth,  on  the  southern  coast  of  England. 

most  important  journeys  was  that  to  America  in  1876, 
primarily  to  give  the  inaugural  address  at  the  Johns  Hopkins 
University.  Other  addresses  of  this  American  visit  were 
published  in  one  volume  in  1877,  of  which  the  most  notable 
are  the  three  lectures  on  Evolution.  The  first  of  these  should 
be  read  by  every  person  who  is  ignorant  of  the  theory,  and 
by  every  one  who  feels  an  antagonism  to  it.     It  is  an  in- 


320  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

troduction  to  the  whole  subject  which  cannot  offend  the  most 
sensitive,  and  which  carries  conviction  to  most  readers. 

Old  Age.  —  For  the  remaining  twenty  years  of  his  Hfe 
Huxley  was  in  ill-health,  which  increased  for  a  number  of 
years.  He  travelled  much  in  search  of  relief,  but  without 
avail.  His  last  six  years  were  somewhat  easier,  and  were 
made  happier  by  the  attentions  of  a  large  family  and  a  large 
circle  of  friends.  "  His  latter  days  were  fruitful  and  happy," 
says  his  son  and  biographer,  "  in  their  unflagging  intel- 
lectual interests,  set  off  by  the  new  delights  of  the  succidia 
altera,^  that  second  resource  of  hale  old  age  for  many  a 
century. 

"  All  through  his  last  and  prolonged  illness,  from  earliest 
spring  until  midsummer,  he  loved  to  hear  how  the  garden 
was  getting  on,  and  would  ask  after  certain  flowers  and 
plants.  When  the  bitter  cold  spring  was  over  and  the  warm 
weather  came,  he  spent  most  of  the  day  outside,  and  even 
recovered  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  walk  once  into  the  lower 
garden  and  visit  his  favourite  flowers.  These  children  of  his 
old  age  helped  to  cheer  him  to  the  last." 

Attitude  toward  Life.  —  On  Huxley's  tombstone  are  in- 
scribed three  lines  from  a  poem  written  by  his  wife : 

•  "Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep ; 

For  still  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep, 
And  if  an  endless  sleep  He  wills,  so  best." 

The  lines,  again  quoting  his  son's  biography,  were  "  inspired 
by  his  own  robust  conviction  that,  all  question  of  the  future 
apart,  this  life ,  as  it  can  be  lived,  pain,  sorrow,  and  evil 
notwithstanding,  is  worth  —  and  well  worth  —  living." 

1  The  phrase  is  from  Cicero,  De  Senectute,  XVI,  where  "the  second 
resource"  is,  as  it  was  with  Huxley,  a  garden. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    321 

Merits  of  his  Style.  —  Clearness  and  simplicity,  inspired 
by  "  veracity  of  thought  and  of  action,"  are  the  most  strik- 
ing qualities  in  Huxley's  writing.  It  has  been  often  remarked 
that  the  secret  of  his  power  lies  in  simple,  direct  definition, 
and  thorough  analysis.  The  essays  On  a  Piece  of  Chalk  and 
On  Coral  and  Coral  Reefs  are  models  for  the  writer  who 
would  present  scientific  subjects  to  well-educated  but  not 
technically  trained  readers.  The  Method  of  Scientific  In- 
vestigation is  equally  effective  to  show  that  ordinary  persons 
make  use  every  day  of  processes  identical  with  those  of  the 
scientist. 

Writings  on  Educational  Topics.  —  Many  of  his  essays 
touch  on  educational  topics ;  for  he  was  deeply  interested 
in  the  advancement  of  popular  education.  We  can  think 
of  no  better  mode  of  saying  our  last  word  on  Huxley  than  by 
quoting  his  definition  of  a  liberal  education,  which  seems  to 
include  the  best  in  every  modern  theory. 

"That  man,  I  think,  has  had  a  liberal  education  who  has 
been  so  trained  in  youth  that  his  body  is  the  ready  servant 
of  his  will,  and  does  with  ease  and  pleasure  all  the  work  that, 
as  a  mechanism,  it  is  capable  of;  whose  intellect  is  a  clear, 
cold,  logic  engine,  with  all  its  parts  of  equal  strength,  and  in 
smooth  working  order ;  ready,  like  a  steam  engine,  to  be  timied 
to  any  kind  of  work,  and  spin  the  gossamer  as  weU  as  forge  the 
anchors  of  the  mind ;  whose  mind  is  stored  with  knowledge  of 
the  great  and  fundamental  truths  of  Natiu-e  and  of  the  laws  of 
her  operations ;  one  who,  no  stunted  ascetic,  is  full  of  life  and 
fire,  but  whose  passions  are  trained  to  come  to  heel  by  a  vigor- 
ous will,  the  servant  of  a  tender  conscience ;  who  has  learned  to 
love  all  beauty,  whether  of  Nature  or  of  art,  to  hate  all  vileness, 
and  to  respect  others  as  himself. 

"Such  an  one  and  no  other,  I  conceive,  has  had  a  liberal 
education  ;  for  he  is,  as  completely  as  a  man  can  be,  in  harmony 
with  Natm-e.  He  will  make  the  best  of  her,  and  she  of  him. 
They  will  get  on  together  rarely;    she  as  his  ever  beneficent 


322  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

mother;   he  as  her  mouthpiece,  her  conscious  self,  her  minister 
and  interpreter." 

JOHN   RUSKIN,    1819-1900 

Volume  and  Variety  of  Work.  —  In  volume  of  work  and 
in  variety  of  subjects  treated  John  Ruskin  exceeded  all  other 
Victorian  writers.  In  114  books,  some  small  but  many  large, 
he  wrote  "  about  mountains,  rivers,  and  lakes ;  about  cathe- 
drals and  landscapes ;  about  geology ;  about  minerals,  archi- 
tecture, painting,  sculpture,  music,  drawing,  political  economy, 
education,  poetry,  literature,  history,  mythology,  socialism, 
theology,  morals  "  (F.  Harrison).  As  another  critic  (Saints- 
bury)  puts  it,  Ruskin  "  applied  his  method  to  the  whole 
encyclopaedia,  with  the  contents  of  any  daily  newspaper 
thrown  in." 

Two  Main  Interests.  —  His  life  as  a  writer  falls  into  two 
distinct  periods.  In  the  first  he  was  critic  of  art,  endeavoring 
to  make  the  fine  arts  intelligible  to  the  common  man  —  to 
help  those  who  have  eyes  but  see  not.  In  the  second  he  was 
social  reformer,  and  gave  his  time,  strength,  and  large  for- 
tune to  raise  the  standards  of  life  throughout  the  nation. 

Parentage  and  Childhood.  —  He  was  born  in  London,  but 
both  parents  were  of  Scotch  descent.  His  father  was  a  wine- 
merchant,  "  an  entirely  honest  one,"  says  the  son's  inscrip- 
tion on  his  father's  tomb ;  and  his  mother's  connections  were 
all  with  the  merchant  class.  She  watched  over  her  only 
child  so  closely  that  he  seemed  likely  to  become  a  useless 
"  mollycoddle."  Most  of  his  education  was  obtained  under 
tutors  at  home;  he  had  no  playmates;  and  he  was  allowed 
to  do  none  of  the  things  that  most  boys  are  fond  of.  Among 
the  prohibited  things  he  himself  has  recorded  are  "  to  go  to 
the  edge  of  a  pond,  or  be  in  the  same  field  with  a  pony." 


LYRICAL   BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    323 


Reading.  —  Among  the  disciplines  enforced  by  his  mother 
was  a  daily  reading  of  the  Bible,  sufficient  in  quantity  to 
enable  him  to  go  through  the  book  in  the  course  of  each 
year.  This  requirement  he  never  regretted,  saying  that  to 
it  he  owed  "  not  only  a  knowledge  of  the  book,  which  I  find 
occasionally  serviceable,  but  much  of  my  general  power  of 
taking  pains,  and  the  best  part 
of  my  taste  in  literature."  For 
recreative  reading  he  was  al- 
lowed The  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  works,  and  Pope's  Homer. 

He  gained  not  a  little  educa- 
tion from  frequent  carriage 
journeys  over  England,  and  frOm 
several  tours  on  the  Continent. 
The  Alps  made  a  particularly 
deep  and  lasting  impression  on 
him.  John  Ruskin. 

At  Orford.  —  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  went  up  to 
Oxford,  entering  Christ  Church  College  as  a  "  gentleman 
commoner."  This  gave,  among  other  privileges,  exemption 
from  entrance  examinations.  Shortly  before  time  for  gradu- 
ation his  course  was  interrupted  by  a  severe  illness,  for  which 
the  treatment  was  an  extended  visit  to  Italy.  Two  years 
later  he  returned  and  was  graduated. 

"  Modem  Painters."  —  The  year  following  graduation 
his  first  book  appeared  —  the  first  volume  of  Modem  Painters 
by  "  a  graduate  of  Oxford."  It  was  largely  a  defence  of 
J.  M.  W.  Turner,  the  great  landscape-painter  whose  work, 
very  different  from  that  of  others,  had  been  ill  received.  In 
four  other  volumes  which  appeared  at  intervals  for  seventeen 


324  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

years,  he  set  forth  in  great  detail  a  theory  of  beauty.  The 
style  which  was  to  become  perhaps  the  most  famous  aspect 
of  Ruskin  was  already  notable,  showing  "  a  mastery  over  all 
the  melody  of  cadence  that  has  no  rival  in  the  whole  range 
of  English  literature  "  (Harrison). 

"Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture."  —  Ruskin's  second 
work  appeared  before  Modern  Painters  was  completed.  In 
this,  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  the  author  shows  himself 
the  disciple  of  his  fellow-countryman,  Carlyle,  protesting 
against  sham,  pretence.  It  is  a  sermon  on  truth  in  art,  in- 
sisting that  a  building  ought  to  be  suited  to  its  purpose, 
and  that  its  suitability  ought  to  be  plain  to  the  eye. 

"  Stones  of  Venice."  —  A  third  important  work  of  the 
period  of  his  art  criticism  is  Stones  of  Venice,  which  in  Rus- 
kin's words,  "  taught  the  laws  of  constructive  art,  and  the 
dependence  of  all  human  work,  for  its  beauty,  on  the  happy 
life  of  the  workman." 

In  1854  there  was  founded  in  London  the  Workingman's 
College,  an  institution  designed  to  give  academic  training  to 
a  class  denied  the  advantages  of  higher  education.  The 
idea  appealed  strongly  to  Ruskin ;  and  for  four  years  he 
gave  courses  in  drawing,  and  contributed  liberally  to  the 
support  of  the  institution.  Subsequently  he  supported  the 
University  Extension  Courses  in  London,  St.  George's  Guild 
in  Sheffield,  and  many  other  philanthropic  movements. 

Ruskin  the  Reformer.  —  Ruskin's  career  as  social  reformer 
rather  than  art  critic  began  in  the  year  1860,  and  was  sig- 
nalized by  the  publication  of  Unto  This  Last,^  expounding  a 
new  political  and  social  science.  Part  I,  "  The  Roots  of 
Honor,"  deals  with  the  obligations  of  men  holding  respon- 

1  The  title  is  from  Matthew  XX,  14. 


.    LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    325 

sible  positions ;  part  II,  "  The  Veins  of  Wealth,"  argues  that 
"  that  country  is  the  richest  which  nourishes  the  greatest 
number  of  noble  and  happy  human  beings ;  "  part  III, 
"  Qui  Judicatis  Terram,"  ^  asserts  that  true  riches  come  only 
from  just  dealing.  Because  it  set  wholly  at  defiance  accepted 
ideas  on  the  subjects  treated,  the  book  was  harshly  criticised 
and  ridiculed.  Undaunted  he  turned  out  volume  after  vol- 
ume, repeating  and  extending  his  new  political  economy. 

"  Sesame  and  Lilies."  —  Among  these  later  books  is  that 
by  which  Ruskin  is  most  widely  known.  Sesame  and  Lilies. 
He  was  fond  of  fanciful  titles ;  and  one  can  seldom  tell  from 
the  name  of  any  volume  what  its  contents  will  be.  Sesame 
and  LUies  treats  first,  "  Of  Kings'  Treasuries,"  the  world's 
great  books ;  second,  "  Of  Queens'  Gardens,"  the  queenly 
power  of  women ;  third,  "  Of  the  Mystery  of  Life  and  Arts," 
that  is,  "  the  connection  of  all  that  is  best  in  the  crafts  and 
arts  of  man,  with  the  simplicity  of  his  faith  and  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  patriotism."  Of  the  three  parts  the  first  is 
most  widely  and  deservedly  popular ;  for  it  has  revealed  for 
the  first  time  to  many  inquirers,  "  How  and  What  to  Read," 
and  —  a  "  far  deeper  "  secret  —  "  W^hy  to  Read." 

Professor  at  Oxford.  —  At  the  age  of  fifty  Ruskin  became 
Professor  of  Art  at  Oxford,  and  was  immensely  popular, 
perhaps  because  of  his  very  liberal  interpretation  of  his 
business.  "  He  never  submitted,"  says  Harrison,  "  to  re- 
gard his  chair  as  one  in  which  he  was  to  confine  himself  to 
teaching  or  studying  art.  He  was  to  be  moralist,  philosopher, 
lawgiver,  prophet  —  or  nothing."     In  his  fifty-seventh  year 

'  This  title  is  from  Wisdom  of  Solomon  (in  the  Apocrypha),  I.  1 :  Dili- 
gite  justitiam  qui  judicatis  terram  ("Love  righteousness,  ye  that  be  judges 
of  the  earth"  —  translation  in  the  Authorized  Version).  Ruskin  trans- 
lates the  main  clause,  "Give  diligent  love  to  justice." 


326 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


he  was  collecting  material  for  sixty-nine  volumes  on  seven 
different  subjects. 

At  Brantwood.  —  Ruskin  suffered  from  many  serious 
illnesses;  but  he  continued  his  various  activities  until  his 
sixtieth  year.  After  this  time  attacks  of  brain  fever  inter- 
rupted plans  for 
writing  and  for 
further  reform 
work ;  and  the 
last  ten  years  of 
his  life  were  spent 
in  retirement. 
His  cousin,  Mrs. 
Severn,  made  a 
home  for  him  at 
Brantwood  on 
Coniston,  in  the 
heart  of  the  beau- 
tiful Lake  Dis- 
trict made  famous 
by  Wordsworth. 
The  only  valu- 
able work  of  these 
years  is  the  auto- 
biography al- 
ready mentioned 
—  ProBterita:  Out- 
lines of  Scenes  and  Thoughts  Perhaps  Worthy  of  Memory  in 
my  Past  Life.  His  eightieth  birthday  had  a  notable  rec- 
ognition. From  all  parts  of  the  world  came  gifts  large 
and  small,  and  communications  friendly  and  formal  — 
telegrams,  letters,  and  addresses. 


Ruskin's  Grave. 
In  Coniston  churchyard. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    327 

A  few  weeks  before  his  eighty-first  birthday  he  passed  away, 
and  was  buried  in  Coniston  churchyard.  Because  of  his 
well-known  dislike  of  black,  his  funeral  was  striking  for  the 
presence  of  gay  colors.  "  There  was  no  black  about  his 
burying,"  said  one  of  his  closest  friends,  "except  what  we 
wore  for  our  own  sorrow." 

Even  for  readers  who  have  no  particular  sympathy  with 
either  Ruskin's  art-criticism  or  his  schemes  of  social  bet- 
terment or  his  political  economy  there  is  real  interest  in 
Ruskin.  This  interest  rests  on  his  prose  style  and  his  at- 
tractive personality. 

Ruskin's  Style :  Chief  Defect.  —  One  who  becomes 
enthusiastic  over  Ruskin's  "  lucidity,  purity,  brilliance, 
elasticity,  wit,  fire,  passion,  imagination,  majesty,  melody 
of  cadence  "  (Harrison)  should  not  fail  to  heed  the  advocate's 
subsequent  statement :  "  It  is  indeed  very  far  from  a  perfect 
style ;  much  less  is  it  in  any  sense  a  model  style,  or  one  to 
be  cultivated,  studied,  or  followed."  Seven  Lamps  of  Archi- 
tecture, the  author  himself  condemned  for  its  rhetoric  and 
word-painting  —  its  "  purple  patches." 

Ruskin's  Style :  Chief  Merit.  —  Ruskin's  style  is  usually 
described  as  "  prose-poetry."  His  writing  is  frequently 
(more  in  his  early  than  in  his  late  work)  of  the  sort  summed  up 
by  the  unthinking  merely  as  "  beautiful,"  or  as  "  word-pic- 
tures." To  the  admirer  of  Ruskin  this  is  entirely  inade- 
quate :  "  he  claims,"  says  Harrison,  "  to  be  not  merely  the 
poet  of  the  beautiful,  but  missionary  of  the  truth."  In 
part  I  of  Sesame  and  Lilies  he  seems  to  be  concerned  only 
with  helping  readers  to  understand  some  great  pieces  of  lit- 
erature. 


328  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Personality.  —  Of  Ruskin's  personality  there  is  only  one 
opinion.  Even  those  who  dissented  most  strongly  from  his 
teachings  found  him,  as  a  man,  beyond  criticism.  Perhaps 
no  testimonial  is  of  more  interest  and  value  than  that  of  a 
distinguished  American  scholar,  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton : 

"For  the  sake  of  others  who  have  not  known  him  as  I  have, 
I  would  declare  my  conviction  that  no  other  master  of  literature 
in  our  time  has  more  earnestly  and  steadily  endeavored  to  set 
forth,  for  the  help  of  those  he  addressed,  whatsoever  things  are 
true,  honest,  just,  pure,  and  lovely ;  or  in  his  own  life  has  more 
faithfully  tried  to  practise  the  virtues  which  spring  from  the 
contemplation  of  these  things." 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD,    1822-1888 

Ruskin  and  Arnold.  —  A  greater  contrast  in  aims  and 
methods  of  social  reform  can  scarcely  be  found  than  that 
between  Ruskin  and  Matthew  Arnold.  Ruskin  believed 
that  much  might  be  done  by  working  with  the  man  ;  Arnold, 
that  to  gain  results  the  beginning  must  be  made  with  the 
child  in  the  elementary  school.  Ruskin's  preaching  was 
done  with  not  a  little  sentiment  and  emotion ;  Arnold's  was 
severely  intellectual.  Ruskin  believed  that  the  starting- 
point  was  labor ;  Arnold  believed  that  the  salvation  neces- 
sary for  the  nation  must  come  through  the  inculcation  of 
"  ideas." 

Heredity  and  Environment.  —  Some  of  the  differences 
between  them  may  undoubtedly  be  explained  by  heredity 
and  environment.  Arnold's  parentage  was  of  a  much  higher 
intellectual  order  than  Ruskin's.  His  father,  the  "  Doctor  " 
Arnold  of  Rugby,  known  to  all  readers  of  Tom  Broion's  School 
Days,  distinguished  himself  sufficiently  at  Corpus  Christi 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    329 

College,  Oxford,  to  obtain  a  fellowship  at  Oriel,  a  college 
famous  for  scholarship:  Matthew's  mother,  daughter  of  a 
scholarly  rector,  and  sister  of  a  scholarly  friend  of  Dr.  Arnold 
at  college,  was  a  woman  of  unusual  character  and  intellect. 

Education.  —  Matthew  Arnold  was  born  at  Laleham  on 
the  Thames,  about  ten  miles  from  the  heart  of  London,  where 
his  father  was  preparing  a  small  number  of  boys  for  the  uni- 


Oriel  College. 
In  the  quadrangle. 

versity.  When  Matthew  was  six  years  old,  Dr.  Arnold 
became  head  master  of  Rugby.  The  son's  schooling  was 
obtained  at  Laleham  under  an  uncle ;  at  Winchester ;  and 
at  Rugby.  Receiving  a  classical  scholarship  at  Balliol  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  he  was  graduated  with  honors,  and  was  elected, 
as  his  father  had  been,  to  a  fellowship  at  Oriel.  After  teach- 
ing a  short  time  at  Rugby,  Arnold  became  secretary  to  the 
minister  of  education,  and  in  1851  an  inspector  of  schools. 


330  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

First  Volume  of  Poems.  —  Meanwhile  he  had  begun  the 
poetic  career  foreshadowed  by  his  w-riting  a  prize  poem  at 
Rugby  and  one  at  Oxford.  In  1849  appeared  The  Strayed 
Jteveller  and  Other  Poems,  by  "A;  "  and  in  1852,  Emped- 
ocles  on  Etna  and  Other  Poems,  also  by  "  A."  Neither 
volume  was  well  received,  and  the  second  was  withdrawn 
when  only  fifty  copies  had  been  sold. 

The  year  after  Emped-odes,  Arnold  put  out  the  first  volume 
with  his  name,  called  merely  Poems.  Besides  three  of  his 
finest  poems  —  Sohrab  and  Rustum,  Requiescat,  and  The 
Scholar-Gipsy  —  it  contained  a  preface,  his  first  prose  work, 
in  which  he  set  forth  his  idea  of  poetry,  and  laid  the  founda- 
tion for  his  critical  work.  This  essay  has  been  rightly 
termed  "  a  literary  landmark  and  monument  of  sound 
criticism." 

Professor  at  Oxford.  —  The  year  1857  was  made  memo- 
rable in  Arnold's  life  by  his  election  as  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford.  In  the  same  year  his  father  died.  Such  an  event 
could  hardly  fail  of  commemoration  by  a  poet  son ;  and 
Rugby  Chapel  is  an  altogether  fitting  memorial  to  Thomas 
Arnold.  His  consecration  to  his  life  work,  his  singleness  of 
aim,  and  his  helpfulness  are  enshrined  forever  in  this  noble 
poem. 

Oxford  Lectures.  —  During  Matthew  Arnold's  tenure  of 
the  chair  at  Oxford  he  delivered  three  notable  series  of  lec- 
tures, two  On  Translating  Homer,  one  On  the  Study  of  Celtic 
Literature.  What  a  critic  had  called  "  the  exhausted  past  " 
was  clearly  still  the  field  of  abounding  interest  to  the  author 
of  the  preface  of  ten  years  earlier. 

Program  of  Criticism.  —  Another  noteworthy  volume  pub- 
lished in  this  decade  was  Essays  in  Criticism,  First  Series, 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    331 


containing,  in  The  Function  of  Criticism  at  the  Present  Time, 
a  complete  program  of  Arnold's  career  as  critic.  The  busi- 
ness of  criticism,  says  he,  "  is  simply  to  know  the  best  that 
is  known  and  thought  in  the  world,  and  by  in  its  turn  making 
this  known,  to  create  a  current  of  fresh  ideas."  A  few  years 
later  came  Culture  and  Anarchy,  his  most  extended  and 
important  work  in  social 
criticism.  Culture,  as  he 
explained  it,  goes  a  step 
beyond  criticism :  it  "  be- 
lieves in  making  reason 
and  the  will  of  God  pre- 
vail, ...  is  the  study  and 
pursuit  of  perfection."  The 
great  British  middle  class, 
the  "Philistines,"  he  at- 
tacks as  the  enemies  of 
culture,  with  a  humorous 
mildness  (or  a  mild  humor) 
which  was  a  new  quality 
in  English  criticism. 


Matthew  Arnold. 
After  the  portrait  by  Hollyer. 


Work  for  Public  Educa- 
tion. —  During  this  period 
Arnold  was  giving  much  time  and  thought  and  effort  to  school 
inspection.  For  thirty -five  years  he  traveled  much  in  Eng- 
land, conducting  examinations  and  reading  papers  in  out-of- 
the-way  hamlets  as  well  as  in  cities.  He  also  travelled  much 
on  the  Continent,  studying  methods  in  the  schools  and  uni- 
versities and  making  exhaustive  reports  to  the  government. 

His  English  home  was  first  in  London,  then  at  Harrow ; 
and  he  spent  much  time  at  Fox  How,  an  estate  purchased 
by    his    father    near    Rydal    Mount,    Wordsworth's    home. 


332  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

After  the  death  of  his   three  sons  he  moved,  in   1873,  to 
Cobham,  where  he  lived  the  rest  of  his  Ufe. 

Lectures  in  America.  —  "  Emerson."  —  In  1883  Arnold  was 
given  a  civil  pension  of  £250,  which  enabled  him  to  re- 
tire from  the  inspectorship  three  years  later.  The  winter 
of  1883-1884  he  delivered  in  America  a  number  of  lectures, 
including  a  memorable  one  on  Emerson  in  Boston  and  near-by 
cities.  While  denying  the  "Sage  of  Concord"  a  high  place 
as  philosopher,  stylist,  or  poet,  Arnold  asserted  that  "  his 
relation  to  us  is  of  even  superior  importance :  he  is  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit."  In 
the  concluding  paragraph,  after  naming  Franklin  and  Emer- 
son as  "  the  most  distinctively  American  of  your  writers," 
he  said  of  the  latter :  "  You  cannot  prize  him  too  much,  or 
heed  him  too  diligently." 

Arnold's  Poetry.  —  As  poet,  Arnold  has  never  reached  a 
large  audience,  and  it  seems  unlikely  that  this  audience  will 
increase  much.  The  limitation  has  been  explained  clearly 
by  Arnold  himself.  Of  Thyrsi's,  he  wrote  to  his  mother: 
"  It  is  probably  too  quiet  a  poem  for  the  general  taste." 
Again  a  few  years  later  he  wrote :  "  It  might  fairly  be  urged 
that  I  have  less  poetical  sentiment  than  Tennyson,  and  less 
intellectual  vigor  and  abundance  than  Browning." 

Besides  the  quietness  which  Arnold  notes,  and  the  lack  of 
certain  qualities,  there  are  other  characteristics  in  his  verse 
which  never  appeal  to  the  "  general  taste."  Most  striking 
are  some  virtues  that  he  in  various  places  discovers  in  ancient 
Greek  literature:  "sanity,"  "moderation,"  "admirable 
symmetry,"  "  Greek  simplicity  and  Greek  grace."  They 
may  be  found  almost  in  equal  degree  in  poems  differing  so 
widely  as  Geist's  Grave,  in  memory  of  a  favorite  dog ;  Shake- 
speare, an  appreciative  sonnet ;   Sohrab  and  Rustum,  an  epic 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    333 

episode  that  "  tells  itself  perfectly,  from  its  first  line  to  its 
noble  close."  His  poetry  is  very  limited  in  amount  as  well 
as  in  appeal ;  but  critics  are  in  agreement  that,  as  the  author 
said  of  Thyrsis,  "  it  will  wear  well." 


.x^   -iL.    -'/<    /   ^    ^^^-^'  ,   <   <-  -^ 


Facsimile  of  Arnold's  Manuscript. 

Part  of  the  lecture  on  Emerson. 

(Widener  Memorial  Library,  Harvard  University.) 

Arnold  on  "  Philistinism."  —  Arnold's  social  criticism,  as 
has  been  suggested,  was  based  on  an  abhorrence  of  "  Philis- 
tinism," the  spirit  of  the  English  middle  classes.  The  upper 
classes,  or  "  Barbarians,"  and  the  lower,  or  "  Populace,"  are 


334  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

suffering  from  the  same  spirit,  says  Arnold ;  but  the  situa- 
tion is  particularly  due  to  the  great  majority  between.  He 
did  not  approve  of  Carlyle,  because  Carlyle  went  about 
"  preaching  earnestness  to  a  nation  which  bad  plenty  of  it 
by  nature,  but  was  less  abundantly  supplied  with  several 
other  useful  gifts." 

Opposition  and  Triumph.  — Such  an  attitude  was  not  likely 
to  make  a  writer  popular,  and  Arnold  was  long  an  object  of 
dislike  to  British  leaders.  Recognition  and  acceptance,  did, 
however,  come  to  him.  His  letters  from  about  1875  fre- 
quently refer  to  his  "  influence,"  not  boastfully,  but  with 
conviction.  "  It  is  a  great  and  solid  satisfaction,  at  fifty," 
he  writes  to  his  sister,  "  to  find  one's  work,  the  fruit  of  so 
many  years  of  isolated  reflection  and  labour,  getting  recog- 
nition amongst  those  whose  judgment  passes  for  the  most 
valuable." 

Literary  Criticism :  Its  Matter.  -;-  Arnold's  literary  judg- 
ments have  for  years  now  met  with  almost  universal  accept- 
ance. Especially  when  he  writes  of  the  great  figures  of 
the  world's  literature,  Shakspere,  Goethe,  Homer,  Milton, 
these  judgments  are  sure  and  even  his  most  critical  readers 
agree.  In  James  Russell  Lowell's  opinion  Arnold  "  always 
has  the  art  of  saying  what  all  of  us  would  be  glad  to  say  if 
we  could." 

His  Method.  —  Although  this  criticism  is  immensely 
valuable  for  itself,  Arnold's  work  is  even  more  valuable  for 
its  method.  He  was  fond  of  disarming,  or  at  least  embar- 
rassing, the  opposition  by  speaking  of  himself  as  "  a  notori- 
ously unsystematic  and  unpretending  writer."  The  inves- 
tigator of  the  whole  body  of  his  criticism,  however,  soon 
becomes  convinced  that  he  had  a  method,  or  at  least  that  he 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    335 

proceeded  with  very  definite  aims.  For  one  thing  he  was, 
as  Mr.  Chesterton  observes,  "  pecuHarly  a  writer  who  sought 
to  say  the  true  thing  on  all  subjects." 

His  Mildness.  —  Another  feature  of  his  method  is  his 
"  inexhaustible  mildness."  His  opponents,  in  the  words 
again  of  Chesterton,  "  were  entirely  bewildered  when  they 
found  they  were  fronted  by  a  mysteriously  meek  person. 
Every  arrow  they  shot  at  him  he  wore  meekly  as  a  decora- 
tion, but  he  sat  in  the  same  spot  and  continued  his  humble 
and  respectful  monologue." 

Scientific  Spirit.  —  Perhaps  the  most  important  aspect  of 
his  method  is  discoverable  from  his  own  words  on  Sainte- 
Beuve,  incidentally  characterized  by  Arnold  as  "  the  master 
of  us  all  in  criticism."  It  has  been  pointed  out  more  than 
once  in  this  chapter  that  the  scientific  spirit  affected  litera- 
ture just  as  truly  as  it  affected  every  other  human  activity. 
Sainte-Beuve,  said  Arnold,  "  was  a  born  naturalist,  carrying 
into  letters  the  ideas  and  methods  of  scientific  natural  in- 
quiry." His  point  of  view  is  that  "  of  a  man  who  seeks  the 
truth."  Without  asserting  that  Arnold  would  have  accom- 
plished anything  as  a  naturalist,  one  must  still  see  that  his 
methods  were,  like  those  of  his  French  master,  the  methods 
of  scientific  inquiry,  the  true  test  of  which  is  the  unflinch- 
ing search  for  truth. 

Tennyson  and  Browning 

The  marked  individuality  of  nineteenth-century  writers 
resulted  in  intense  partisanship  among  readers.  Andrew 
Lang  once  said  that  "  every  Englishman  who  reads  may  be 
said  to  be  a  partisan  of  Dickens  or  Thackeray ;  "  and  much 
the  same  thing  might  be  said  of  Tennyson  and  Browning, 


336  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

twin  stars  of  Victorian  poetry.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that 
these  poets  themselves  maintained  the  most  generous  atti- 
tude toward  each  other.  Browning's  selected  poems  of 
1872  he  dedicated 

"  To  Alfred  Tennyson  —  In  poetry,  illustrious  and  consummate  : 
in  friendship,  noble  and  sincere." 

To  this  Tennyson  responded  gracefully  in  Tiresias  and  Other 
Poems,  with  the  following : 

"To  my  good  friend  Robert  Browning,  whose  genius  and 
geniality  will  best  appreciate  what  may  be  best,  and  make  most 
allowance  for  what  may  be  worst,  this  volume  is  affectionately 
dedicated." 

The  two  poets  were  born  three  years  apart ;  there  was  a 
space  of  about  six  years  between  their  first  appearances  in 
print ;  they  were  buried  side  by  side  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Popular  recognition  of  their  greatness  came  at  about  the 
same  time ;  but  the  degrees  in  which  they  were  recognized 
varied  much.  Browning,  indeed,  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
have  attained  a  popular  success  at  all,  perhaps  because  he  is 
"  the  poet's  poet  "  of  the  nineteenth  century.  While,  there- 
fore, it  is  inevitable  that  their  names  should  be  closely  asso- 
ciated, the  course  of  their  lives  and  their  poetic  ideals  and 
achievement  differ  greatly. 

ALFRED   TENNYSON,    1809-1892 

Father,  and  Friend.  —  Tennyson  was  born  at  Somersby, 
Lincolnshire,  where  his  father  was  rector.  His  early  educa^- 
tion  was  obtained  partly  at  the  grammar  school  in  Louth,  a 
near-by  town,  and  partly  under  his  father's  direction  at  home. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, the  chief  importance  of  which  in  his  life  is  its  bring- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    337 

ing  him  into  contact  with  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.  Of  him 
we  shall  hear  again.  Tennyson  remained  at  Cambridge 
only  three  years,  and  hence  left  without  a  degree. 

First  Volume  of  Poems.  —  His  first  publication  appeared 
the  year  before  he  entered  the  university  —  Poems  by  Two 
Brothers,  some  poems  by  his  older  brother  Charles  being  in- 


SoMERSBY  Rectory. 
Tennyson's  birthplace. 

eluded.  The  volume  is  of  the  slightest  poetic  merit,  being 
memorable  chiefly  as  showing  the  immense  influence  of 
Byron.  There  was  a  poem  on  Byron's  death,  and  there  were 
six  other  references  to  him.  In  later  years  Tennyson  said 
of  this  influence  on  his  early  poems :  "  Byron  was  dead !  I 
thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an  end ;  I  thought  every- 
thing was  over  and  finished  for  every  one  —  that  nothing  else 
mattered." 


338 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Rapid  Rise  to  Fame.  —  In  1830  came  Poems,  Chiefly 
Lyrical,  containing  fifty-three  poems,  of  which,  as  a  result  of 
criticism  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  thirty-two  were  after- 
ward suppressed.  One  composition,  The  Poet,  in  which 
Tennyson  set  forth  a  very  high  conception  of  his  caUing,  was 
received  with  enthusiasm  by  several  magazines.     His  third 

volume.    Poems    (1833),    estab- 
lished his  position  with  the  dis- 
^gMH||  criminating  few ;  but  it  did  not 

^         J^B  meet  with  a  cordial  reception  in 

^  ;  ^^^B  ^11  directions.     Of  poems  which 

^^^f  are  now  universally  appreciated, 

it  contained  The  Lady  of  Shalott, 
The  Miller's  Daughter,  The  Palace 
of  Art,  and  A  Dream  of  Fair 
Women.  During  the  nine  years 
following,  Tennyson,  though  he 
composed  many  poems,  pub- 
lished only  two,  and  those  are 
unimportant.  At  the  end  of 
this  period  the  two-volume  collection  which  marked  him  as 
the  leading  poet  of  his  day,  appeared.  The  first  volume 
contained  only  early  poems  revised  and  "  considerably 
altered ;  "    the  second  contained  twenty-nine  new  poems. 


Tennyson  at  the  Age  of 
Eighteen. 


Period  of  Spiritual  Conflict.  —  The  new  poems  of  this  col- 
lection mark  an  important  episode  in  Tennyson's  spiritual 
development.  The  scientific  spirit  of  the  Victorian  era,  to 
which  we  have  referred,  was  disturbing  many  thinking  men, 
unsettling  for  a  time  their  beliefs  in  both  God  and  humanity. 
In  addition  to  this  general  disturbance  Tennyson  experienced 
a  great  personal  loss  in  the  death  of  his  friend  Hallam  in 
1833.     It  was  long  before  his  struggle  with  doubt  was  vie- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    339 

torious ;  and  in  two  poems  of  1842  may  be  found  a  record  of 
this  struggle.  In  Locksley  Hall,  a  monologue,  the  speaker 
voices  his  lack  of  confidence  in  the  social  order  of  his  day, 
when  his  cousin  Amy, 

"Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue," 

marries  a  man  of  position  and  wealth  instead  of  the  cousin 
whom  she  loves.  In  The  Two  Voices  the  question  of  im- 
mortality is  discussed ;  the  conflict  within  a  soul  between 
scepticism  and  faith  is  set  forth. 

Not  until  1850  was  the  poet's  victory  complete.  In  that 
year  was  published  In  Memoriam,  the  poem  or  series  of 
poems  inspired  by  the  memory  of  Hallam,  which  had  been 
written  at  intervals  since  Hallam's  death.  The  very  first 
stanza  of  the  poem,  which  happens  to  be  among  the  last 
composed,  shows  the  triumph  : 

"Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace. 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove." 

His  Memorable  Year.  —  1850  was  a  memorable  year  for 
the  poet.  In  addition  to  publishing  In  Memoriam,  by  most 
readers  regarded  as  his  greatest  work,  he  was  appointed 
Poet  Laureate  in  succession  to  Wordsworth ;  and  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Emily  Sell  wood.  Though  they  had  been 
tacitly  engaged  for  a  long  while,  Tennyson's  financial  con- 
dition and  prospects  made  a  public  acknowledgment  seem 
inadvisable  to  the  young  lady's  parents ;  and  for  nine  years 
she  and  Tennyson  had  not  even  corresponded. 

Personal  Fortunes.  —  The  great  increase  in  his  income 
resulting  from  the  success  of  In  Memoriam  and  the  prestige 
of  the  Laureateship  made  possible  the  poet's  establishing 


340 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


himself  on  a  beautiful  estate,  Farringford,  Isle  of  Wight. 
Subsequently  he  purchased  Aldworth,  in  Surrey  ;  and  there- 
after divided  his  time  between  the  two  residences.  Fre- 
quently, however,  he  was  found  in  London  and  other  places 
in  company  with  friends,  among  whom  he  numbered  the 
greatest  in  literature  and  public  life.     Everywhere  he  was  a 


Farringford. 

notable   figure,   wonderfully   described    in    a   few   lines   by 
Carlyle : 

"One  of  the  finest  looking  men  in  the  world.  A  great  shock 
of  rough  dusky  dark  hair ;  bright  laughing  hazel  eyes  ;  massive 
aquiline  face,  most  massive  yet  most  delicate ;  of  sallow  brown 
complexion,  almost  Indian  looking,  —  clothes  cynically  loose,  free- 
and-easy,  smokes  infinite  tobacco.  His  voice  is  musical,  metallic, 
fit  for  loud  laughter  and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that  may  lie  be- 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    341 


tween  ;  speech  and  speculation  free  and  plenteous ;  T  do  not  meet 
in  these  late  decades  such  company  over  a  pipe !" 

Repeated  Triumphs.  —  The  remainder  of  the  poet's  life  is 
a  succession  of  triumphs  and  honors.  Two  years  after  his 
appointment  as  Laureate 
he  caught  the  entire  nation 
with  The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade.  Oxford  conferred 
upon  him  a  doctor's  degree. 
The  appearance  of  the  first 
of  the  Idylls  of  the  King  in 
1859  silenced  the  few  re- 
maining critics.  Five  years 
later  came  Enoch  Arden, 
perhaps  the  most  uni- 
versally popular  of  all 
his  poems.  The  patriotic 
poems  which  appeared  at 
frequent  intervals  met  with 
enthusiastic  approval ;  and 
not  a  few  of  them,  it  may 
be  now  said,  are  among  his 
greatest  productions  —  for 
example,  The  Revenge,  The 
Defence  of  Lucknow,  the  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade. 

A  Peer  and  his  Epitaph.  —  In  1884,  after  having  twice 
declined  the  honor,  Tennyson  was  created  a  peer  with  the 
title.  Baron  of  Aldworth  and  Farringford.  While  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  Tennyson  to  be  honored  by  state 
action,  the  peerage  was  a  fitting  recognition  of  the  esteem  in 
which  he  was  held  by  the  nation.     In  the  minds  of  English- 


Alfred,  Luhu  Tenn'yson". 
From  a  photograph  by  Barraud. 


342  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

speaking  people  Tennyson's  preeminence  among  non-dra- 
matic poets  is  not  likely  to  be  questioned  soon.  The  explana- 
tion is  not  far  to  seek.  His  "  extraordinary  popularity,"  says 
Leslie  Stephen/  "  was  partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  he  could 
express  what  occurred  to  everybody  in  language  that  could 
be  approached  by  nobody." 

A  few  days  before  his  death  in  October,  1892,  he  said  to 
his  son :  "  Mind  you  put  Crossing  the  Bar  at  the  end  of  all 
editions  of  my  poems."  It  is  a  fitting  epitaph  for  one  who 
had  come  successfully  through  a  long  struggle  with  doubt : 

"For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crossed  the  bar." 

The  Poet's  Interpretations  of  his  Own  Poems.  —  Most 
readers  feel  the  truth  of  the  poet's  own  comment  on  hi 
Memoriam:  "  It  is  rather  the  cry  of  the  whole  human  race 
than  mine.  ...  It  is  a  very  impersonal  poem  as  well  as 
personal."  The  sentiment  of  Crossing  the  Bar  appeals  to 
most  readers,  even  though  they  may  have  a  much  less  defi- 
nite conception  of  after-life  than  the  poet  has.  Though 
there  may  be  difficulty  in  following  the  allegory  in  the  Idylls, 
there  is  a  very  general  feeling  that  the  theme  — 

"  sense  at  war  with  soul "  — 

has  been  adequately  presented ;  that  there  is  much  profit  in 
reading  the  Idylls  in  the  light  of  the  author's  interpretation : 
"  By  King  Arthur  I  always  meant  the  soul,  and  by  the 
Round  Table  the  passions  and  capacities  of  a  man," 

Tennyson's  Breadth.  —  There  may  be  grounds  for  argu- 
ing, as  some  critics  do,  that  Tennyson's  genius  is  inferior  to 

^Studies  of  a  Biographer,  II,  80. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    343 

some  of  the  preceding  age,  notably  Wordsworth  and  Byron. 
Without  passing  on  this  question,  we  may  say  without  hesi- 
tation that  he  surpasses  them  all  in  breadth.  In  The  Palace 
of  Art  and  The  Lotos- Eaters  he  approaches  Keats  in  sensuous 
appeal ;  in  In  Memoriam  he  has  produced  a  greater  personal 
elegy  than  Shelley's  Adonais;   in  little  lyrics  too  numerous 


Tennyson  Memorial. 
On  Beacon  Hill,  Farringford. 

to  mention  he  challenges  Shelley's  supremacy  in  another 
field ;  in  the  spirit  of  revolt  set  forth  in  Locksley  Hall  and 
Maud,  he  bears  comparison  with  Byron;  in  The  Talking 
Oak  he  gives  a  spiritual  interpretation  of  nature  worthy  of 
Wordsworth. 

His  Interest  in  Arthurian  Story.  —  No  poet  of  the  Roman- 
tic period,  moreover,  was  capable  of  producing  a  poem  of  so 


344  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

large  dimensions  in  so  high  a  style  as  the  Idylls  of  the  King. 
The  subject  of  King  Arthur  dominated  Tennyson's  life,  as 
will  appear  from  a  mere  recital  of  dates.  The  1833  volume 
contained  The  Lady  of  Shalott,  afterward  worked  over  as 
the  idyll  of  Launcelot  and  Elaine.  The  volume  of  1842  con- 
tained the  Arthurian  lyrics,  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Launcelot 
and  Queen  Guinevere,'  and  Morte  d' Arthur,  afterward  incor- 
porated in  the  last  section  of  the  Idylls.  Enid  and  Nimus 
appeared  in  1857 ;  and  two  years  later  three  other  poems  were 
published  with  this  as  Idylls  of  the  King.  Four  more  idylls 
appeared  in  1869 ;  another  in  1871 ;  another  in  1872 ;  and 
the  last  to  be  composed,  Balin  and  Balan,  in  1885.  In  1888 
the  idyll  called  Geraint  and  Enid  was  divided  into  two,  The 
Marriage  of  Geraint  being  the  title  of  the  first;  and  the 
Idylls  of  the  King  was  complete  "  in  twelve  books." 

Criticism  of  "  Idylls."  —  There  appears  to-day  a  tendency 
to  disparage  the  Idylls.  We  are  told  that  the  character- 
drawing  is  weak,  that  the  allegory  breaks  down,  that  there 
is  an  "  over-exquisite  elaboration  of  form,"  that  Tennyson 
has  taken  unwarranted  liberties  with  some  figures  of  Arthurian 
tradition.  Such  criticisms  may  be  admitted  without  seri- 
ously detracting  from  the  beauty  of  the  poem  as  a  whole. 
The  thoughtful  reader  who  does  not  feel  the  need  of  revising 
annually  his  poetic  canons  is  likely  to  accept  the  verdict, 
that  "  next  to  Paradise  Lost  the  Idylls  are  the  finest  body  of 
non-dramatic  blank  verse  in  the  language." 

Unity  of  his  Poetic  Ideal.  —  There  are  probably  few  artists 
whose  lives  have  been  so  continually  directed  toward  one  goal 
as  was  Tennyson's.  In  The  Poet,  written  when  he  was 
twenty-one,  he  set  forth  his  conception  of  the  poet's  equip- 
ment and  mission : 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    345 

"The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 
With  golden  stars  above ; 
Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love." 

He  has  a  vision  of  Freedom,  in  the  hem  of  whose  raiment 

"was  traced  in  flame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power  —  a  sacred  name. 


No  sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd. 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
She  shook  the  world." 

When  the  poet  was  seventy-six,  he  wrote  as  an  "  epilogue  " 
to  The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade : 

"And  here  the  Singer  for  his  art 

Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 
*  The  song  that  nerves  a  nation's  heart 
Is  in  itself  a  deed.'" 

The  Final  Confession.  —  Three  years  before  his  death,  in 
Merlin  and  the  Gleam,  he  made  his  final  confession  of  faith  as 

an  ideahst : 

"Not  of  the  sunhght. 
Not  of  the  moonUght, 
Not  of  the  starUght ! 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven. 
Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin. 
Follow  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  the  Gleam." 


346  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ROBERT   BROWNING.    1812-1889 

Unity  of  his  Teaching.  —  Browning's  poetry,  like  Tenny- 
son's, shows  a  striking  unity.  His  conception  of  the  poet 
and  his  office  is  very  much  larger  and  is  set  forth  much  more 
in  detail  than  is  Tennyson's  ;  but  one  can  find  no  two  or  three 
poems  which  demonstrate  the  identity  of  this  conception  at 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  his  career.  What  can  be  dem- 
onstrated of  Browning  in  this  fashion  is  his  optimism,  his 
perfect  faith  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  goodness,  justice, 
virtue.  In  Pippa  Passes,  written  when  he  was  twenty-nine,  it 
appears  thus : 

"The  year's  at  the  spring 

And  day's  at  the  morn ; 

Morning's  at  seven ; 

The  hill-side's  dew-pearled ; 

The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 

The  snail's  on  the  thorn : 

God's  in  his  heaven  — 

AlVs  right  with  the  world!" 

In  the  Epilogue  to  Asolando,  written  a  few  dayr  before  his 
death,  he  characterizes  himself  in  these  words : 

"One  who  never  tm-ned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 

Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  tri- 
umph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better. 
Sleep  to  wake." 

Life  did  not  run  altogether  smoothly  for  him  ;  but  he  passed 
through  no  struggles  like  those  recorded  by  Tennyson  in  The 
Two  Voices,  Locksley  Hall,  Maud,  and  In  Memoriam. 

Parentage  and  Education.  —  Browning  was  born  in  Cam- 
berwell,  a  section  of   London  south  of   the  Thames.     His 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    347 

father  and  paternal  grandfather  were  bank  clerks ;  his  ma- 
ternal grandfather  was  a  merchant ;  and  they  were  dissent- 
ers in  religion.  His  formal  education,  at  a  private  school, 
ended  when  he  was  about  fourteen,  though  he  later  at- 
tended for  a  short  time  a  Greek  class  at  London  University. 
That  from  this  limitation  of  training  he  did  not  suffer  is  due 
to  the  wide  range  of  reading  at  home  directed  by  his  father. 


^   »Kt^    //iUw/  <a«  L^  /f<i*^       ^>^  •  *^  >^  .  '^  '*^j  '>*^t-  '^*<M^ 


A  Letter  of  Browning. 
In  which  he  denies  that  he  ever  "designedly  tried  to  puzzle  people." 

In  addition  he  received  private  instruction  in  music  (instru- 
mental, vocal,  and  theoretical),  dancing,  riding,  and  boxing. 
He  became  proficient  in  all  these  pursuits,  enough  so  in 
music  to  think  of  adopting  it  as  a  profession. 

First  Publication.  —  Browning's  first  publication,  Pauline, 
the  expense  of  which  was  borne  by  an  aunt,  was  put  out  anony- 
mously in  the  author's  twentieth  year.  Its  theme  is  the 
"  redemption  and  restoration  "  of  a  self-centred  poet  "  by 


348  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Divine  love,  mediated  to  him  by  human  love."  One  review 
said :  "  Somewhat  mystical,  somewhat  poetical,  somewhat 
sensual,  and  not  a  little  unintelligible,  —  this  is  a  dreamy 
volume,  without  an  object,  and  unfit  for  publication." 
Browning  sympathized  with  this  criticism,  and  would  not 
have  republished  the  poem  but  for  knowledge  that  it  was 
going  to  be  done  by  unauthorized  persons. 

"  Paracelsus."  —  Two  years  later  there  appeared  with  his 
name  what  has  been  called  "  one  of  the  most  marvellous  pro- 
ductions of  youthful  genius  in  the  history  of  any  literature." 
This  is  Paracelsus,  so  difficult  to  characterize  in  moderate 
space  that  we  must  content  ourselves  with  calling  it  a  varia- 
tion of  a  very  old  theme  —  the  thirst  for  knowledge.  It 
brought  him  little  fame ;  but  it  brought  him  notable  friend- 
ships, including  those  of  Wordsworth,  Dickens,  Carlyle,  and 
the  actor  Macready.  Readers  in  general  began  to  say  that 
Browning  was  "  obscure." 

"  Sordello."  —  Five  years  after  Paracelsus  came  Sordello, 

which  for  many  established  obscurity  as  the  chief  quality  in 

Browning's  work.     Even  his  loyal  friends  could  make  nothing 

of  it.     Tennyson  said  that  he  could  understand  only  the  first 

line  — 

"Who  will  may  hear  Sordello's  story  told," 

and  the  last  — 

"Who  would  has  heard  Sordello's  story  told;" 

and  that  they  were  both  lies !  Mrs.  Carlyle  after  reading  it 
was  uncertain  whether  Sordello  was  a  man,  a  city,  or  a  book. 
"  Many  have  explained  Sordello,"  says  a  recent  writer,^  "and 
some  have  comprehended  it.  It  is  uncompromisingly  and 
irretrievably  difficult  reading." 

1  In  Camb.  Hist.,  XIII,  66. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    349 


From  Dramatic  Poem  to  Dramatic  Monologue.  —  Pippa 
Passes,  a  dramatic  poem  which  appeared  the  year  after  Sor- 
dello,  was  the  first  work  that  may  be  said  to  have  brought 
Browning  his  pubUc.  Through  the  story  of  a  little  silk-mill 
girl  who  influenced  greatly  several  people  entirely  unknown 
to  her,  the  importance  of  unimportant  things  is  emphatically 
asserted.  This  poem  was  the 
first  of  a  low-priced  series  of 
volumes  called  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates, which  included  a  col- 
lection of  Dramatic  Lyrics  and 
one  of  Dramatic  Romances. 
These  volumes  contain  many 
striking  examples  of  a  form  in- 
vented by  Browning  and  made 
positively  his  own  —  the  dra- 
matic monologue,  in  which, 
though  only  one  person  speaks, 
the  characters,  lives,  and  pres- 
ent circumstances  of  others  are 
clearly  brought  out.  Dramatic 
Lyrics  contained  two  fine  and 
quite  intelligible  poems.  Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  and 
The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin;  and  Dramatic  Romances,  a  different 
but  equally  delightful  one,  How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 
from  Ghent  to  Aix,  showing  how  exciting  a  ride  on  a  good 
horse  may  be. 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing. 
From  a  portrait  by  Talfourd. 


Browning's  Love  Story.  —  The  account  of  Browning's 
writings  must  be  interrupted  here  to  tell  his  wonderful  love 
story.  He  read  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,  a  poem  by  Eliz- 
abeth Barrett,  and  expressed  to  her  cousin  and  publisher,  Mr. 
Kenyon,  great  admiration  for  it.     Informing  Browning  that 


350 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Miss  Barrett  was  an  invalid,  the  publisher  urged  him  to  write 
her  his  appreciation.  He  did  so ;  some  months  later  he  called 
to  see  her ;  some  months  later  he  proposed  marriage  to  her. 
In  the  face  of  her  family's  unanimous  disapproval  of  such  a 
move,  it  is  not  surprising  that  even  an  ardent  wooer  required 
a  year  to  carry  his  point.     He  did  carry  it,  however;  they 

were  married  in  September, 
1846;  and  the  climate  of 
Italy,  whither  they  immedi- 
ately went,  gave  her  fifteen 
years  of  happiness  when  she 
had  looked  for  only  a  few 
years  of  wretchedness.  Soon 
after  reaching  Italy  Mrs. 
Browning  wrote  to  a  friend  : 
"  He  has  drawn  me  back  to 
life  and  hope  again  when  I 
had  done  with  both." 

Kenyon  the  Magnificent. 
—  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning 
wrote  much  poetry  ;  but  it 
had  very  limited  circulation 
and  brought  small  returns.  A  legacy  of  10,000  guineas  from 
Mr.  Kenyon  in  1856  put  them  beyond  want  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives ;  but  their  sense  of  loss  overpowered  any  thought 
of  ease  to  result  from  the  wealth.  Browning  had  once  char- 
acterized Mr.  Kenyon  in  strong  language :  "  There  goes  one 
of  the  most  splendid  men  living  —  a  man  so  noble  in  his 
friendship,  so  lavish  in  his  hospitality,  so  large-hearted  and 
benevolent,  that  he  deserves  to  be  known  all  over  the  world 
as  *  Kenyon  the  Magnificent.'  " 

The  death  of  Mrs.  Browning  in  1861  produced  a  great 


Robert  Browning. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH  .351 

change  in  Mr.  Browning's  mode  of  life.  He  returned  to  Lon- 
don to  live,  and  devoted  himself  to  his  only  child,  Robert 
Barrett  Browning,  and  to  poetry. 

"  The  Ring  and  the  Book."  —  Seven  years  later  his  greatest 
work  was  published.  The  Ring  and  the  Book.  A  very  slight 
story,  the  murder  of  a  low-born  girl  by  a  nobleman  who  mar- 
ried her  thinking  she  had  money,  occupies  more  than  20,000 
lines  in  the  telling.  Pure  gold,  the  poet  reminds  us,  cannot 
be  made  into  a  ring,  but  must  be  mixed  with  alloy  which  is 
afterward  dissolved  out  with  acid.  Pure  truth,  such  as  was 
found  in  a  book  recounting  the  nobleman's  trial,  cannot  be 
communicated  directly,  but  must  be  mixed  with  the  alloy  of 
the  poet's  fancy,  — 

"Because  it  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art, 
That  Art  remains  the  one  way  possible 
Of  speaking  truth,  to  mouths  Uke  mine  at  least." 

And,  again,  because 

"Art  may  tell  a  truth 
ObUquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought. 

******* 

So  may  you,  .  .  . 

—  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 
Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived,  — 
So  write  a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facts, 
Suffice  the  eye  and  save  the  soul  beside." 

Fame  in  Last  Years.  —  After  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Brown- 
ing published  fifteen  volumes,  and  was  generally  acclaimed 
at  least  the  equal  of  Tennyson.  Honors  came  to  him  from 
many  directions,  including  degrees  or  appointments  from  the 
universities  of  London,  Oxford,  Cambridge,  Edinburgh,  Glas- 
gow, and  St.  Andrew's.     A  part  of  each  year  he  spent  in  Italy, 


352 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


chiefly  at  his  son's  home  in  Venice,  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico. 
On  the  wall  of  this  house,  in  which  Browning  died,  is  a 
memorial  tablet  containing  two  lines  from  his  poem,   De 

Giislihus  : 

"Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  'Italy.'  " 


Palazzo  Rezzonico. 
Browning's  home  in  Venice,  damaged  in  an  air-raid  in  March,  1918. 

Browning's  Subtlety.  —  "The  most  profoundly  subtle 
mind  that  has  exercised  itself  in  poetry  since  Shakespeare," 
is  one  critic's  summary  of  Robert  Browning.  The  widespread 
belief  in  his  subtlety,  for  which  the  word  "  obscurity  "  already 
mentioned  is  merely  a  popular  substitute,  has  deterred  many 
from  reading  Browning.  The  situation  is  unfortunate  both 
for  poet  and  for  readers.     It  is  happily  no  longer  necessary, 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    353 

since  many  well-edited  books  of  selections  from  Browning 
may  be  obtained  at  low  cost,  and  excellent  guides  for  the  be- 
ginner may  now  be  found  in  any  good  library.* 

Breadth  of  Interest.  —  It  is  unfortunate  that  Browning 
is  not  known  to  all  English  readers,  because  no  poet  has 
touched  more  subjects,  or  touched  any  with  greater  force 
and  understanding.  Literature,  art,  philosophy,  music,  ro- 
mance, religion,  science,  the  national  life  of  most  countries 
of  Europe,  —  all  are  effectively  interpreted  by  him.  More 
wonderful  yet  are  his  studies  of  the  human  soul,  in  which  it 
is  his  practice  to  seize  the  subject  at  some  critical  moment 
in  his  career,  and  show  how  he  meets  and  is  played  upon  by 
the  forces  of  good  and  evil.  The  breadth  of  his  interests  is 
well  expressed  in  one  of  Swinburne's  Sequence  of  Sonnets  on 
the  Death  of  Robert  Browning  : 

"  No  spirit  in  shape  of  light  and  darkness  wrought, 
No  faith,  no  fear,  no  dream,  no  rapture,  nought 
That  blooms  in  wisdom,  nought  that  burns  in  crime. 
No  virtue  girt  and  armed  and  helmed  with  light, 
No  love  more  lovely  than  the  snows  are  white. 
No  serpent  sleeping  in  some  dead  soul's  tomb, 
No  song-bird  singing  from  some  live  soul's  height. 
But  he  might  hear,  interpret,  or  illume 
With  sense  invasive  as  the  dawn  of  doom." 

ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON,    1850-1894 

"To  travel  hopefully  is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive,  and  the 
true  success  is  to  labor." 

These  closing  words  of  Stevenson's  essay  El  Dorado,  written 
when  he  was  twenty-eight  years  old,  seem  like  a  guiding  star 

'  Among  the  best  of  these  may  be  mentioned  Berdoe's  Brovming 
Cyclopaedia   (Macmillan),   Porter    and    Clarke's    Browning  Study  Pro- 


354  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

of  which  he  never  lost  sight.  Almost  his  entire  life  he  was  an 
invalid,  a  consumptive,  knowing  that  his  days  were  to  be  few, 
that  he  was  unlikely  "  to  arrive  "  at  a  ripe  old  age  of  peace  and 
comfort.  Yet  only  the  year  before  his  death  he  could  write 
to  his  friend  George  Meredith  that,  despite  many  and  serious 
hindrances,  he  had  done  his  work  "  unflinchingly."  "  The 
battle,"  he  says,  "  goes  on  —  ill  or  well,  is  a  trifle ;  so  as  it 
goes.  I  was  made  for  a  contest,  and  the  Powers  have  so 
willed  that  my  battle-field  should  be  this  dingy,  inglorious 
one  of  the  bed  and  the  physic  bottle." 

A  Scotchman.  —  Stevenson  was  born  in  Edinburgh.  A 
devotion  throughout  his  life  to  his  parents  and  his  native 
land  caused  repeated  efforts  to  live  in  Edinburgh;  but  the 
severe  climate  made  it  impossible.  To  his  poor  health  was 
also  due,  in  some  measure,  his  inability  to  follow  engineering, 
the  profession  of  his  father  and  grandfather,  although  his 
longing  to  write  was  doubtless  responsible  in  part  for  his  dis- 
taste for  the  other  occupation.  "  It  was  not  so  much," 
he  says  in  A  College  Magazine, "  that  I  wished  to  be  an  author 
(though  I  wished  that  too)  as  that  I  had  vowed  that  I  would 
learn  to  write." 

Early  Education  Irregular.  —  From  the  age  of  eighteen 
months  Stevenson  was  never  in  good  physical  condition ;  and 
in  consequence  of  this  fact  his  education  was  very  irregular. 
Between  1857  and  1867  he  attended  for  varying  lengths  of 
time,  mostly  short,  four  different  schools  in  Edinburgh  and 
one  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  In  addition  he  had  many 
tutors  during  the  intervals  when  he  was  unable  to  attend 
regular  school.  Among  the  excellent  home  influences  under 
which  he  grew  up  none  was  of  more  importance  than  that  of 

grammes  (Crowell),  Corson's  Introduction  to  Browning  (Heath),  and 
Phelps's  Browning:  How  to  Know  Him  (Bobbs-Merrill). 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    355 


z!?^. 


r^^ 


EDINBURGH^w^  l,.6tA 


his  nurse,  Alison  Cunningham  —  the  delightful  "  Cummie  " 
to  whom  he  was  devoted  to  the  end  of  his  life.  In  a  letter 
which  he  wrote  to  her  just  two  months  before  his  death, 
he  signed  himself,  "  Your  laddie,  with  all  love." 

Student  of  Engineering  and  Law.  —  For  four  years,  1867- 
1871,  Stevenson  was  a  student  in  the  engineering  department 
of  the  University  of 
Edinburgh.  When 
after  an  honest  effort 
he  informed  his  father, 
that  engineering  was 
utterly  distasteful  to 
him,  the  elder  insisted 
on  the  younger's  pre- 
paring for  the  bar,  lest 
he  should  come  to 
be  known  merely  as 
an  unsuccessful  author. 
After  two  years  of  study 
he  passed  the  law  ex- 
aminations, but,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  never 
practised.  A  man  who 
had  spent  the  better 
part  of  twenty-three 
years  learning  to  write. 


'Pkturrtqve  If^lti 

h 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

-*JV  ISLAND  yOYjKE,  rxiAitJXi  tUjtf'-D 


Facsimile  Titi.e-page  of  a  Volume  Pre- 
sented BY  Stevenson  to  his  "Cummie." 

(Widener  Memorial  Library,  Harvard 
University.) 


without  encouragement  or  assistance,  was  little  likely  to  ac- 
cept the  doom  of  a  life  in  a  dingy  office  and  musty  court- 
rooms. 

Friendships.  —  A  not-to-be-despised  benefit  of  his  univer- 
sity career  was  the  friendship  of  Professor  Fleeming  Jenkin. 
Although  the  latter  was  fifteen  years  older  than  his  pupil 


356  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  although  his  first  connection  with  the  pupil  was  due  to 
truancy,  the  professor  loved  Stevenson  best  of  all  his  friends. 
Stevenson,  on  the  other  hand,  writing  a  memoir  of  Jenkin, 
found  it  a  great  pleasure,  when  digging  into  the  past  of  his 
friend,  "  to  find  him  at  every  spadeful  shine  brighter."  His 
own  sunny  disposition  and  pervading  charm  gained  for  him 
other  notable  and  lasting  friendships,  including,  among  men 
of  letters,  Andrew  Lang,  Edmund  Gosse,  the  poet  W.  E. 
Henley,  and  closest  of  all,  Sidney  Colvin,  professor  at  Oxford. 

Early  Writings.  —  Stevenson's  first  published  work,  a  mag- 
azine article  on  Roads,  attracted  no  attention.  Various 
essays  and  short  stories  in  magazines,  including  some  of  his 
very  best,  appeared  from  1877  to  1883  without  marked  success. 
His  first  story,  A  Lodging  for  the  Night,  ranked,  not  only  by 
critics  but  by  short-story  writers  as  one  of  the  finest  specimens 
in  all  literature,  did  not  bring  him  before  the  public  as  the 
greatest  successor  of  Poe  and  Hawthorne.  Not  even  when 
the  essays  and  stories  were  gathered  into  dignified  volumes 
did  the  public  realize  that  a  real  genius  had  appeared. 

First  Successes.  —  His  popularity  began  with  Treasure 
Island,  published  in  1883,  and  still  enjoying,  a  full  generation 
later,  great  favor  among  young  and  old  alike.  One  can 
scarcely  think  of  its  ever  losing  its  hold.  It  is  a  pirate  story, 
a  blood-and-thunder  story,  but  one  "  with  a  difference  " 
from  all  other  pirate  stories.  Of  its  two  most  surely  immortal 
characters.  Pew  and  Long  John  Silver,  Professor  Phelps  well 
says  that  it  was  no  "  trifling  feat  to  make  a  blind  man  and  a 
one-legged  man  so  formidable  that  even  the  reader  is  afraid 
of  them."  Three  years  after  Treasure  Island  the  work 
appeared  which  established  Stevenson's  position  and  brought 
him  an  income  commensurate  with  his  merit.  This  work  was 
Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  a  setting  forth  in 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    357 

story  form  of  the  dual  nature  in  man  —  one  struggling  upward 
toward  good,  the  other  downward  to  evil. 

Wanderings,  and  Marriage.  —  We  must  turn  back  some 
years  to  resume  the  thread  of  his  life  aside  from  his  writings. 
From  1873  to  1891  Stevenson  made  a  succession  of  moves  in 
search  of  health,  living  in  southern  France,  Switzerland, 
Bournemouth  (south  coast  of  England),  California,  the  Adi- 
rondacks.  On  one  of  the  visits  to  France  he  met  and  fell 
in  love  with  an  American  lady,  Mrs.  Osbourne,  whom  he  mar- 
ried in  1880  at  her  home  in  San  Francisco. 

"  The  Amateur  Emigrant."  —  When  he  decided  to  go  to 
California,  his  finances  were  low,  and  he  made  the  trip  as  an 
emigrant.  His  experiences  are  recorded  in  two  delightful 
volumes  —  The  Amateur  Emigrant  and  Across  the  Plains. 
The  first  is  perhaps  more  entertaining,  with  its  humorous  yet 
sympathetic  portraits  of  steerage  tjqjes,  and  its  account  of 
steerage  life,  Stevenson  made  himself  thoroughly  at  home 
in  the  motley  crowd ;  enjoyed  himself  and  added  to  their 
enjoyment ;  and  made  some  shrewd  observations  on  life. 

He  rightly  called  himself  an  amateur  emigrant ;  for  he  was 
not  born  to  such  associations  as  the  journey  furnished.  The 
uniform  failure  of  his  fellow-passengers  to  recognize  him  as  a 
"  gentleman  "  (from  an  Englishman's  point  of  view)  was 
notable.  One  took  him  to  be  a  mason,  another  a  seaman, 
another  a  practical  engineer,  and  so  on.  "  From  all  these 
guesses,"  says  Stevenson, 

"I  drew  one  conclusion,  which  told  against  the  insight  of  my 
companions.  They  might  be  close  observers  in  their  own  way, 
and  read  the  manners  in  the  face ;  but  it  was  plain  that  they  did 
not  extend  their  observation  to  the  hands." 

Home  in  Samoa.  —  The  union  of  Stevenson  and  Mrs. 
Osbourne  appears,  from  testimony  of  many  kinds,  to  have 


358 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


been  one  of  those  ideal  unions  which  all  too  seldom  bless  men 
of  genius.  In  1891,  after  sailing  the  Pacific  in  a  yacht  for 
three  years,  the  Stevensons  settled  at  Apia,  Samoa.  Here  he 
built  a  home,  and  here  he  lived  to  the  full  the  three  years  left 
to  him.     Besides  writing  much  he  interested  himself  in  the 


Vailima. 
Stevenson's  home  in  Samoa. 

natives  and  in  the  bad  government  provided  for  them  by 
their  European  masters ;  and  became,  with  the  title  of 
"  Tusitala,"  general  counsellor  to  all  classes  of  people  on  all 
sorts  of  subjects.  Lloyd  Osbourne,  Stevenson's  stepson  and 
literary  partner,  says : 

"Government  chiefs  and  rebels  consulted  him  with  regard 
to  policy;     political  letters  were  brought  to  him  to  read  and 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH    359 

criticise ;  his  native  following  was  so  widely  divided  in  party  that 
he  was  often  kept  better  informed  on  current  events  than  any 
person  in  the  country.  An  armed  party  would  come  from  across 
the  island  with  gifts,  and  a  request  that  Tusitala  would  take 
charge  of  the  funds  of  the  village  and  buy  the  roof-iron  of  a  pro- 
posed church.  Parties  would  come  to  hear  the  latest  news  of 
the  proposed  disarming  of  the  country,  or  to  arrange  a  private 
audience  with  one  of  the  officials ;  and  poor  war-worn  chieftains, 
whose  only  anxiety  was  to  join  the  winning  side,  and  who  wished 
to  consult  with  Tusitala  as  to  which  that  might  be.  Mr.  Steven- 
son would  sigh  sometimes  as  he  saw  these  stately  folk  crossing 
the  lawn  in  single  file,  their  attendants  following  behind  with 
presents  and  baskets,  but  he  never  failed  to  meet  or  hear  them." 

Death  and  Epitaph.  —  At  the  end  of  a  hard  day's  writing 
in  December,  1894,  Stevenson  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  lost 
consciousness  immediately,  and  passed  away  in  two  hours. 
Natives  cut  a  path  up  the  steep  side  of  Mount  Vaea,  and  bore 
his  body  to  a  spot  on  its  summit  which  he  had  chosen  for  his 
final  resting-place.     On  one  side  of  his  tomb  is   his   own 

Requiem  : 

"Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky. 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  he. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

"This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me; 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea. 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 

Stevenson  wrote  poems,  plays,  long  romances,  romantic 
short  stories,  travel  sketches,  essays  on  various  subjects, 
and  a  great  number  of  letters  which  make  almost,  if  not  quite, 
as  good  reading  as  anything  else  he  wrote.  His  plays  were 
not  successful  on  the  stage,  and  may  be  entirely  disregarded  in 
an  estimate  of  his  work.  If  his  achievement  in  essay  and 
romance  were  not  so  high,  his  three  volumes  of  poetry  might 


360 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


claim  some  attention ;   but  under  the  circumstances,  only  a 
few  poems  in  his  Child's  Garden  of  Verse  seem  likely  to  live. 

Stevenson  the  Romancer.  —  It  is  in  the  field  of  romance 
that  Stevenson's  achievement  has  long  been  recognized,  a 

field  for  which  he  had  an  inborn 
liking,  and  in  which  he  produced 
several  unquestioned  master- 
pieces. When  realism  had  been 
long  dominant  in  prose  narra- 
tive, when  "  the  novel  of  soci- 
ety "  had  come  to  be  synonymous 
with  the  novel,  Stevenson  set  out 
to  write  "  the  romance  of  man." 

His  Creed  as  Romancer.  — 
In  A  Gossip  on  Romance,  he 
deliberately  takes  issue  with  the 
public  who  have  come  "  to  look 
somewhat  down  on  incident, 
and  reserve  their  admiration 
for  the  clink  of  teaspoons  and 
the  accents  of  the  curate.  It  is 
thought  clever,"  said  he,  "  to 
write  a  novel  with  no  story  at 
all,  or  at  least  with  a  very  dull 
one."  He  argues  the  superi- 
ority of  romance  because  "  fic- 
tion is  to  the  grown  man  what 
play  is  to  the  child  ;  "  and  be- 
cause in  a  good  romance  "  the  game  so  chimes  with  the 
grown  man's  fancy  that  he  can  join  in  it  with  his  whole  heart, 
and  it  pleases  him  with  every  turn,  and  he  loves  to  recall  it 
and  dwell  upon  its  recollection  with  entire  delight." 


From 


Stevenson. 

photograph   taken   in 
Samoa. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH     361 

In  A  Humble  Remonstrance  he  trains  his  guns  on  Walter 
Besant  and  Henry  James,  two  eminent  realists  and  champions 
of  realistic  fiction.  Here  he  urges  that  "  the  novel  exists  not 
by  its  resemblances  to  life,  but  by  its  immeasurable  difference 
from  life ;  "  and  that  in  art,  including  prose  narrative,  "  man's 
one  method,  whether  he  reasons  or  creates,  is  to  half-shut 
his  eyes  against  the  dazzle  and  confusion  of  reality." 

These  two  essays,  it  might  be  said,  embody  Stevenson's 
entire  creed  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  a  creed  from  which  he  never 
wavered.  Walter  Scott,  "  out  and  away  the  king  of  the 
romantics,"  he  admitted  to  be  his  master ;  and  although 
Stevenson  never  painted  so  large  a  canvas  as  his  predecessor, 
or  attempted  to  depict  any  great  historical  period  or  move- 
ment as  did  Scott,  he  was  a  worthy  disciple.  In  some  stories 
—  Kidnapped,  David  Balfour,  and  The  Black  Arrow,  for 
instance  —  there  is  something  of  an  historical  background ; 
but  history  is  never  Stevenson's  chief  interest. 

Long  Romances.  —  Besides  Treasure  Island  and  Dr. 
JeJcyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  Stevenson  wrote  three  other  long 
romances  of  the  first  rank  —  Kidnapped  and  its  sequel 
Damd  Balfour,  and  The  Master  of  Ballantrae.  They  are 
mostly  Scotch  in  characters  and  setting,  but  much  of  Kid- 
napped takes  place  at  sea,  and  with  Treasure  Island  must  be 
placed  high  in  the  literature  of  the  sea.  Two  other  long 
romances,  Weir  of  Hermistcm  and  St.  Ives,  he  left  unfinished. 

Short  Stories.  —  Among  his  short  romantic  tales  it  is 
difficult  to  choose  for  special  praise.  In  A  Lodging  for  the 
Night,  his  first  composition  of  this  class  and  generally  con- 
sidered his  best,  he  produced  "  a  grisly  winter's  tale  "  of 
Fran(?ois  Villon,  a  fifteenth-century  Frenchman  previously 
described  by  Stevenson  in  an  essay  as  "  student,  poet,  and 
housebreaker."     Markheim  is  another  presentation  of  the 


362  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

problem  of  Br.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  written  on  a  very 
different  plan  from  its  successor,  and  showing  in  this  very 
difference  Stevenson's  imaginative  power.  The  Merry  Men, 
a  tale  of  the  northern  coast  of  Scotland  and  of  the  effect  of 
wrecks  on  the  natives,  is  wonderfully  thrilling,  in  the  best 
sense  of  that  much  abused  word.  Will  o'  the  Mill  is  as  much 
opposed  as  possible  to  most  of  his  narratives,  being  as  he 
himself  said,  an  "  experiment "  in  presenting  an  inactive, 
unambitious  sort  of  person  with  whom  he  could  have  had 
little  sympathy. 

Stevenson  the  Essajrist.  —  Recognition  of  Stevenson's 
greatness  as  an  essayist  has  come  slowly  but  certainly  to 
thoughtful  readers.  To-day  not  a  few  critics  predict  that 
when  his  romances  short  and  long  are  regarded  as  antiquated, 
his  essays  will  still  be  fresh  and  inspiring.  This  statement 
should  be  modified  so  as  to  refer,  not  to  his  critical  essays, 
pleasant  though  these  may  be ;  but  to  his  personal  essays, 
those  easy,  graceful,  and  friendly  compositions  that  so  endear 
him  to  the  reader. 

Personality.  —  In  these,  Stevenson  the  man  stands  clearly 
revealed.  "  It  is  surely  beyond  a  doubt,"  he  says  in  An 
Apology  for  Idlers,^  "  that  people  should  be  a  good  deal  idle 
in  youth.  Many  by  extreme  activity  make  a  large  fortune, 
who  remain  underbred  and  pathetically  stupid  to  the  last. 
And  meantime  there  goes  the  idler,  who  began  life  along  with 
them  —  by  your  leave,  a  different  picture.  Extreme  busy- 
ness, whether  at  school  or  college,  kirk  or  market,  is  a  symp- 
tom of  deficient  vitality ;  and  a  faculty  for  idleness  implies  a 
catholic  appetite  and  a  strong  sense  of  personal  identity." 
Now  this  is  perfectly  acceptable  if  one  understands  what 

*  Included  in  the  volume  Virjinvius  Puerisquc. 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH     363 

Stevenson  means  by  "  idle :  "  not  "  doing  nothing,  but 
doing  a  great  deal  not  recognised  in  the  dogmatic  formularies 
of  the  ruling  class."  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  great  man 
who  did  nothing  less  frequently  than  Stevenson. 

Belief  in  the  Value  of  Efifort.  —  A  passage  in  Aes  Triplex, 
generally  called  his  masterpiece  of  literary  composition, 
shows  the  same  faith  in  the  value  of  honest  endeavor  as  El 


S  ^i^'i  I  \l«i  if^tJfzr tjX ,  -w.  tc-**.  4*-^"^  ...^^iX^  tei».  uK>mX  u  t«  U). 


Facsimile  of  Stevenson's  Manuscript  Memoirs  of  Himself. 
(Widener  Memorial  Library,  Harvard  University.) 

Dorado,  from  which  we  quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this 
sketch.  "  It  is  not  only  in  finished  undertakings  that  we 
ought  to  honor  useful  labour.  A  spirit  goes  out  of  a  man 
who  means  execution,  which  outlives  the  most  untimely 
ending.  All  who  have  meant  good  work  with  their  whole 
hearts,  have  done  good  work,  although  they  may  die  before 
they  have  the  time  to  sign  it."  Stevenson  signed  enough, 
one  may  think ;  but  he  left  two  romances  unfinished,  and  as 
Chesterton  says,  "  he  died  with  a  thousand  stories  in  his 
heart." 


364  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Nearly  every  essay  is  marked  by  a  "  wholesome  ethical 
quality,"  resulting  in  a  spirit  of  optimism  not  surpassed  by 
Robert  Browning  himself.  Amid  his  various  high  excellences, 
none  is  more  valuable  than  this.  One  other  passage  must  be 
given  to  illustrate ;  from  the  concluding  paragraph  of  one 
of  his  late  essays,  Pulvis  et  Umbra. 

"As  we  dwell,  we  living  things,  in  our  isles  of  terror  and  under 
the  imminent  hand  of  death,  God  forbid  it  should  be  man  the 
erected,  the  reasoner,  the  wise  in  his  own  eyes  —  God  forbid  it 
should  be  man  that  wearies  in  well-doing,  that  despairs  of  unre- 
warded effort,  or  utters  the  language  of  complaint." 

Optimism.  —  This  pervading  quality  becomes  even  more 
inspiring  when  we  note  how  utterly  he  lived  his  philosophy. 
His  cheerful  optimism  under  the  constant  shadow  of  deatii 
is  the  best  of  sermons.  Students  of  American  literature  will 
recall  the  similarly  inspiring  struggle  of  the  great  Georgia 
poet,  Sidney  Lanier.  To  the  present  writer  another  char- 
acteristic common  to  the  American  and  the  Scotchman  is 
that  they  wear  well.  The  works  of  the  latter  that  will  wear 
best  are  undoubtedly  these  friendly  essays  revealing  a  true, 
beautiful,  and  vigorous  spirit,  and  pointing  ever  to  greater 
heights  as  the  best  goals  of  man's  effort. 

Conclusion 

A  connecting  link  between  the  time  of  Ruskin's  death 
(1900)  and  the  present  will  be  found  in  our  list  of  supple- 
mentary writers.  Though  only  an  uncritical  opinion  would 
05  yet  place  the  best  writers  of  the  past  twenty  years  on  a 
level  with  the  best  of  the  Victorians,  there  are  among  them 
names  of  no  small  distinction.  It  is  altogether  possible  that 
a  generation  or  two  hence,  with  better  perspective,  these 
recent  writers  will  be  given  a  higher  rank  than  now.     So 


LYRICAL  BALLADS  TO  RUSKIN'S  DEATH     365 

with  many  writers  of  the  present  day.  The  historian  of 
literature,  however,  must  take  a  conservative  position,  with- 
out necessarily  going  so  far  as  the  late  Sir  Leslie  Stephen: 
"  A  writer,  it  is  said,  is  entitled  to  be  called  a  classic  when 
his  books  have  been  read  a  century  after  his  death."  * 

No  sort  of  forecast  for  English  literature  can  safely  be 
made  at  the  present  time.  Almost  everything  written  in 
England  since  the  beginning  of  the  Great  European  War 
has  been  to  some  extent  colored  by  that  gigantic  conflict. 
Rapid  and  amazing  changes  in  governments  are  bringing 
about  amazing  changes  in  the  life  and  thought  of  the  people ; 
and  the  end  is  not  yet.  If  literature  is  the  written  record  of 
the  life  of  a  nation,  English  literature  is  likely  to  be  un- 
settled and  uncertain  as  long  as  these  changes  are  taking 
place ;  and  what  the  coming  of  peace  will  bring  no  man  can 
predict. 

'  Hours  in  a  Library,  I,  186. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS  NOT  TREATED 
IN  THE  BODY  OF  THE  HISTORY 

Chapters  I-IU  (before  1557) 

GowER,  John  (1325?-1408),  of  whose  Ufe  Uttle  is  known,  was 
a  close  friend  of  Chaucer.  He  wrote  mostly  in  Latin  and  French, 
and  it  was  probably  Chaucer's  example  that  led  him  to  write  in 
English  at  all.  His  most  important  work,  Confessio  Amanlis 
("Confession  of  a  Lover"),  is  a  collection  of  stories  from  various 
sources. 

Layamon  (see  page  17)  was  a  country  priest  who  Uved  near 
the  Welsh  border,  and  who  wrote  early  in  the  thirteenth  century 
a  long  poem  called  Brut.  It  deals  with  the  stories  of  Arthur 
for  the  first  time  in  English.  Layamon  based  his  work  on  Wace, 
a  French  writer,  but  often  departed  from  his  source.  In  Brut, 
for  instance,  we  first  get  the  story  of  Arthur's  being  carried  to 
Avalon  by  fairies,  instead  of  dying. 

More,  Sir  Thomas  (1478-1535),  is  best  known  for  his  Utopia 
(meaning  "Nowhere"),  a  picture  of  an  ideal  commonwealth, 
drawn  largely  from  Plato's  Republic.  Since  it  was  originally 
written  in  Latin,  and  was  not  put  into  English  until  sixteen 
years  after  the  author's  death,  its  importance  in  English  litera- 
ture is  due  solely  to  its  matter.  So  realistic  was  the  account 
of  the  land  and  its  inhabitants  that  many  men  of  the  day  be- 
lieved it  a  real  country,  and  some  wished  to  send  Christian  mis- 
sionaries there. 

Chapter  IV  (1557-1642) 

Ascham,  Roger  (1515-1568),  was  one  of  the  foremost  scholars 
of  his  day;  tutor  to  Queen  EHzabeth  (see  page  48).  Quite  in 
contrast  with  the  great  scholar  of  a  slightly  later  time,  Francis 
Bacon,  Ascham  beheved  in  English  as  a  language  for  hterature, 
and  wrote  in  English.     Toxophilus,  nominally  written  to  advocate 

367 


368  ■        ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

archery  as  a  national  sport,  is  really  a  plea  for  a  sane  manner 
of  living,  with  due  regard  for  outdoor  sports  in  general.  His 
other  important  work, .  The  Schoolmaster,  sets  forth  some  very 
modern-sounding  theories  regarding  education. 

Chapman,  George  (1559-1634),  besides  dramas  (see  page  82) 
wrote  some  poems  and  a  conclusion  to  Marlowe's  Hero  and 
Leander,  and  made  poetic  translations  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey. 
Keats's  sonnet,  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  now 
seems  undue  praise ;  but  Chapman's  faults  are  chiefly  those  of 
the  age  in  which  he  wrote,  and  his  work  is  a  noble  beginning  of 
Homeric  translations. 

Donne,  John  (1573-1631),  was  the  founder  of  the  "school" 
of  poetry  called  by  Doctor  Johnson  the  "Metaphysical."  His 
poems,  which  were  not  published  till  after  his  death,  are  marked 
by  philosophizing,  far-fetched  allusions,  too  ingenious  figures  of 
speech,  and  a  conscious  display  of  out-of-the-way  information. 
His  influence  on  other  English  poets  for  half  a  century  was  great 
and  unhealthy. 

Drayton,  Michael  (1563-1631),  was  a  writer  of  much  verse, 
but  little  real  poetry.  He  is  best  known  by  his  Battle  of  Agin- 
court,  one  of  the  best  pieces  of  patriotic  poetry  in  English.  His 
most  ambitious  work,  Polyolbion,  is  a  sort  of  poetical  geography 
of  Britain. 

Hooker,  Richard  (1553-1600),  was  a  prominent  upholder  of 
the  Church  of  England  in  the  early  days  of  the  Puritan  controversy 
(see  page  86) .  His  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  important  in  the  history 
of  English  prose  style  as  one  of  the  few  works  of  its  time  un- 
influenced by  Euphuism  (see  page  50).  It  is  not  a  "modern" 
style,  but  it  has  points  of  real  superiority  over  most  contemporary 
prose  works. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter  (1552-1618),  was  a  typical  combination 
of  statesman,  poet,  prose  writer,  and  courtier,  who  may  be  com- 
pared with  Sidney  (see  page  51).  He  was  a  man  of  action,  and 
belongs  more  to  history  than  to  literature ;  but  he  is  memorable 
here  as  friend  and  patron  of  Spenser,  and  as  writer  of  a  number 
of  interesting  lyrics,  of  a  History  of  the  World,  and  of  several 
"accounts"  of  his  voyages  of  exploration  and  colonization. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        369 

Chapter  V  (1642-1660) 

Cowley,  Abraham  (1618-1667),  was  a  royalist  poet  of  great 
reputation  in  his  day,  now  not  holding  a  high  place  even  among 
minor  poets.  He  belonged  to  the  school  of  Donne;  his  work 
shows  all  the  weaknesses  of  Donne,  and  few  of  the  soUd  talents 
that  redeem  much  of  Donne.  The  Mistress,  a  collection  of  about 
a  hundred  love  poems,  may  still  be  read  with  interest.  Cowley's 
aspiration  was  to  be  merely  : 

"Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high." 

Fuller,  Thomas  (1608-1661),  belongs  with  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
(see  page  113)  among  the  "quaint"  writers  of  old  time  who  were 
beloved  by  Charles  Lamb.  He  also  shares  with  Sir  Thomas 
the  distinction  of  being  no  partisan  in  the  stirring  days  of  Crom- 
well. Both  the  ParUamentary  party  and  the  Royalists  objected 
to  his  moderation.  His  most  important  and  interesting  work  is 
Worthies  of  England,  biographical  sketches  enlivened  by  curious 
anecdotes  and  a  pervading  quiet  humor. 

Marvell,  Andrew  (1621-1678),  a  close  friend  of  Milton, 
is  the  only  other  Puritan  poet  of  the  day  deserving  even  passing 
mention.  He  took  an  active  part  in  politics  during  the  Common- 
wealth, and  was  only  occasionally  a  poet.  His  feeling  for  nature 
was  genuine,  and  his  verses  embodying  this  feeling  constitute 
his  best  claim  on  modern  readers.  The  Garden  is  perhaps  the 
most  generally  admired  of  his  poems. 

Taylor,  Jeremy  (1613-1667),  was  the  greatest  preacher  who 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  Church  of  England  in  the  theological 
controversies  of  the  day.  His  greatest  work,  however.  Holy 
lAving  and  Dying,  is  not  controversial,  but  is  a  sort  of  manual 
for  the  faithful.  "He  makes  life  a  procession  to  the  grave," 
says  WiUiam  Hazlitt,  "but  crowns  it  with  garlands,  and  rains 
sacrificial  roses  on  its  path." 

Waller,  Edmund  (1606-1687),  like  Cowley,  has  fallen  greatly 
in  the  critics'  opinion.  Edmund  Gosse  makes  much  of  Waller's 
historical  position  in  English  poetry,  but  is  compelled  to  admit 
that  he  can  never  again  be  popular.  Perhaps  half  a  dozen  of 
Waller's  lyrics  will  be  remembered,  of  which  the  most  pleasing 

is  that  beginning : 

"Go,  lovely  rose !" 


370  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Walton,  Izaak  (1593-1683),  of  whom  it  has  been  said  :  "There 
is  perhaps  no  character,  whether  personal  or  hterary,  more 
perfectly  enviable  than  that  of  Izaak  Walton."  He  was  a  London 
merchant  who  was  able  to  retire  from  business  at  the  age  of  fifty, 
and  who  lived  a  happy  hfe  of  ease  and  quiet  forty  years  more. 
His  writing  was  solely  for  recreation ;  and  his  most  important 
work  is  in  praise  of  his  favorite  sport  —  fishing.  The  Complete 
Angler  is  cast  in  the  form  of  dialogues  between  Venator  (a  hunter) , 
Auceps  (a  falconer),  and  Piscator  (an  angler).  Most  of  the  talking 
is  done  by  the  last-named,  who  gives  detailed  instructions  where 
and  how  various  fish  are  to  be  caught,  and  quaintly  interesting 
descriptions  of  English  scenery.  The  Complete  Angler  is  a  delight- 
ful quiet  volume,  and  deserves,  if  ever  book  did  deserve  it,  char- 
acterization as  "unique." 

Chapter  VI  (1660-1700) 

Butler,  Samuel  (1612-1680).  His  only  claim  to  notice  is  a 
long  satire  in  verse,  Hudibras.  It  is  a  clever  but  coarse  burlesque 
on  the  Puritans,  written  to  please  the  profligate  courtiers  of 
Charles  II.  The  portrait  of  "Sir"  Hudibras  is  supposed  to 
have  been  drawn  from  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  one  of  the  most  extreme 
adherents  of  Cromwell. 

CoNGREVE,  William  (1670-1729),  was  the  foremost  of  the 
comic  dramatists  of  the  Restoration.  His  chief  comedies  — 
Love  for  Love,  The  Double  Dealer,  and  The  Old  Bachelor  —  are 
marked  by  brilliant  conversation,  but  also  by  the  low  moral  tone 
characterizing  aU  the  drama  of  the  period. 

Otway,  Thomas  (1652-1685),  was  perhaps  the  greatest  writer 
of  tragedy  during  the  Restoration  Period,  as  Congreve  was  the 
greatest  in  the  comic  field.  His  best  play,  Venice  Preserved, 
remained  popular  for  nearly  a  hundred  years,  and  was  occasionally 
acted  until  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Wycherley,  William  (1640-1716),  was  second  perhaps  to 
Congreve  in  merit,  but  far  surpassed  him  in  the  immorality  of  his 
writings.  His  two  best  plays  (if  it  is  permissible  to  use  the  word 
in  connection  with  Wycherley)  are  The  Country  Wife  and  The 
Plain  Dealer,  the  central  ideas  of  which  are  borrowed  from  two 
plays  of  Molifere. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS         371 

Chapter  Vn  (1700-1798) 

Blake,  William  (1757-1827),  was  a  painter  and  engraver  as 
well  as  a  poet.  Most  of  his  poetry  and  most  of  his  paintings 
are  at  least  peculiar,  are  to  many  fantastic,  and  to  not  a  few  are 
the  work  of  an  insane  man.  Before  he  gave  himself  wholly  to 
this  strangeness  he  had  published  two  volumes,  Poetical  Sketches 
and  Songs  of  Innocence.  In  these  are  many  short  and  simple 
lyrics  that  even  the  most  hostUe  critics  admit  to  be  great  poems. 

Chatterton,  Thomas  (1752-1770),  "the  marvelous  boy  that 
perished  in  his  pride"  (Wordsworth),  published  several  poems 
which  he  pretended  were  by  a  fifteenth  century  writer  named 
Rowley.  He  had  poetic  power;  but  when  his  pretence  was 
exposed  and  he  failed  as  a  writer  in  London,  he  committed  suicide 
at  the  age  of  eighteen.  His  career  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
illustrations  of  the  precocity  of  genius. 

Macpherson,  James  (1736-1796),  a  Scotchman,  published  in- 
1762  Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetry,  Translated  from  the  Gaelic. 
Later  he  published  Fingal  and  Temora,  long  narrative  poems  which 
he  claimed  to  be  translations  from  Ossian,  an  ancient  Scotch  poet. 
Dr.  Johnson  and  other  critics  denounced  the  poems  as  forgeries, 
and  in  a  short  time  they  were  generally  imderstood  to  be  such. 
Macpherson  is  important  among  the  forerunners  of  Romanticism, 
because  he  helped  to  arouse  interest  in  the  distant  and  mysterious 
past. 

Ramsay,  Allan  (1686-1758),  a  Scotchman,  was  a  writer  of 
poems  of  merit  in  themselves  and  of  more  importance  because  they 
influenced  Burns.  Ramsay  was  a  wigmaker,  then  a  bookseller, 
conducted  a  circulating  library,  and  ran  a  theatre  for  a  short 
time.  He  rewrote  or  imitated  many  ancient  Scotch  songs,  and 
wrote  many  original  ones.  His  best  work  is  The  Gentle  Shepherd, 
a  pastoral  drama  with  songs,  a  picture  of  real  rustic  life  in  Scot- 
land. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley  (1751-1816),  may  be  said  to 
have  revived  the  comedy  of  the  Restoration,  and  to  have  washed 
out  most  of  its  filth.  Examined  closely,  his  two  best  plays  — 
The  Rivals  and  The  School  for  Scandal  —  are  seen  to  have  a 
background  scarcely  more  moral  than  the  plays  of  Congreve  and 
Wycherley.     They  are,  however,  not  openly  immoral,  and  either 


372  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

play  may  be  read  or  witnessed  without  offence.  The  dialogue  is  as 
bright  and  sparkling,  the  situations  and  characters  are  as  amusing 
now  as  in  the  day  of  their  first  success. 

Young,  Edward  (1683-1765),  is  remembered  as  the  author  of  a 
long  poem  in  blank  verse  called  Night  Thoughts  on  Life,  Death, 
and  Immortality.  As  the  title  suggests,  it  is  a  sombre,  gloomy 
composition.  It  was  popular  for  many  years;  but  almost  its 
only  interest  for  a  modern  reader  is  in  its  epigrams,  many  of 
which  have  become  proverbs.  Among  them  are:  "Pro- 
crastination is  the  thief  of  time;"  "How  blessings  brighten  as 
they  take  their  leave;" 

"Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance  allows, 
Does  well,  acts  nobly ;  angels  can  do  no  more." 

Chapter  VIH  (1)  —  Age  of  Romanticism  (1798-1832) 

Campbell,  Thomas  (1777-1844),  though  he  wrote  several  long 
poems,  holds  a  place  in  English  literature  chiefly  because  of 
a  few  short  lyrics.  Of  these  the  most  worth  while  are  two 
patriotic  poems  —  Ye  Mariners  of  England  and  The  Battle  of  the 
Baltic.     They  are  the  best  of  their  kind  before  Tennyson. 

Hazlitt,  William  (1778-1830),  attained  considerable  fame  as 
a  critic  and  is  still  highly  valued  by  many  discriminating  readers. 
He  wrote  voluminously  on  the  drama,  on  painting,  and  on  hter- 
ature.  Most  of  his  essays,  which  were  written  for  periodicals,  are 
short ;  but  he  left  three  large  connected  studies  which  have  stood 
the  test  of  time.  These  are :  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets, 
Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers  (admirable  introductory 
lecture  on  Wit  and  Humor),  and  Lectures  on  Elizabethan  Literature. 

Hunt,  Leigh  (1784-1859),  a  very  miscellaneous  writer,  wrote 
a  few  things  of  the  first,  or  very  nearly  the  first,  rank.  His 
poem,  Abou  Ben  Adhem,  is  still  much  admired  by  critical  and 
uncritical  alike.  He  wrote  a  sonnet,  To  the  Grasshopper  and  the 
Cricket,  which  compares  favorably  with  that  of  Keats  on  the  same 
subject.  Other  poems  of  merit  he  wrote,  but  his  prose  is  more 
deserving  of  a  place  in  our  literature.  Perhaps  his  most  interest- 
ing and  valuable  essays  are  An  Illustrative  Essay  on  Wit  and 
Humor,  and  his  attempt  to  answer  the  question.  What  is  Poetry  f 
An  interesting  episode  in  his  life  is  an  imprisonment  for  two 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS         373 

years  for  libelling  the  prince  regent.  His  political  friendsjegarded 
him  as  a  martyr,  and  made  him  more  comfortable  and  happy  in 
prison  than  he  could  ever  make  himself  while  at  large. 

Jeffret,  Francis  (1771-1850),  was  editor  of  The  Edinburgh 
Review  for  twenty-seven  years  from  its  estabUshment  in  1802. 
The  reviewers  were  at  first  opposed  to  all  innovations  in  Uterature ; 
and  Jeffrey  is  chiefly  remembered  as  a  severe  critic  of  Wordsworth 
and  the  other  "new"  poets,  whom  he  criticised  simply  because 
they  broke  with  the  "fixed  standards"  of  poetry.  He  later, 
however,  modified  his  views;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  his 
independence  was  an  aid  to  Uterature. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage  (1775-1864),  after  a  stormy  career, 
died  in  Italy  at  the  age  of  eighty-nine,  "an  exile  from  his  country," 
says  an  admirer,  "misunderstood  from  the  very  individuality  of 
his  genius  by  the  majority  of  his  countrymen,  but  highly  appre- 
ciated by  those  who  could  rightly  estimate  the  works  he  has  left 
behind  him."  His  poetry  has  comparatively  few  readers.  In 
both  his  poetry  and  his  prose  he  hved  too  entirely  in  the  past, 
and  made  no  effort  to  bring  it  into  relation  with  the  present.  His 
greatest  work,  Imaginary  Conversations,  portrays  well  the  per- 
sonages and  periods  dealt  with;  yet  there  is  a  sort  of  "aloofness 
and  imreahty"  about  even  these  that  detracts  from  their  in- 
terest. 

Moore,  Thomas  (1779-1852),  though  extraordinarily  popular 
in  his  day  (and  he  was  contemporary  with  Scott  and  Byron), 
and  though  his  Lalla  Rookh  still  has  admirers,  is  not  a  great  poet. 
Yet  it  is  unlikely  that  he  will  soon  be  forgotten.  Besides  the 
highly-colored  Oriental  tale  in  verse  just  named,  Moore  wrote 
Irish  Melodies,  at  least  two  of  which  are  famiUar  to  all  lovers 
of  music  —  Believe  me  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms,  and  The 
Last  Rose  of  Summer.  He  also  wrote  a  biography  of  his  friend, 
Lord  Byron,  which  has  not  yet  been  superseded. 

Percy,  Bishop  Thomas  (1729-1811),  was  a  collector  and  editor 
of  ballads,  whose  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  (1765)  marks 
a  critical  epoch  in  the  history  of  Enghsh  literature.  Many  poets 
were  profoundly  influenced  by  it;  its  influence  on  not  only  the 
poetry  but  the  entire  career  of  Walter  Scott  is  almost  incalculable. 
While  still  a  boy,  Scott  read  the  Reliques  "with  a  dehght  which 


374  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

may  be  imagined  but  camiot  be  described."  To  the  inspiration 
of  Bishop  Percy's  volume  we  owe,  in  no  small  measure,  the 
splendid  array  of  stories  of  a  picturesque  past  that  have  endeared 
Sir  Walter  to  coimtless  thousands. 

SouTHEY,  Robert  (1774-1843),  poet  laureate  from  1813  till  his 
death,  was  a  voluminous  writer.  The  list  of  volumes  bearing  his 
name  numbers  one  hundred  and  nine  titles,  and  he  wrote  a  larger 
number  of  magazine  articles.  His  poetry  is  mediocre ;  and  few 
readers  can  be  found  who  know  more  of  it  than  a  few  of  child- 
hood's favorite  lyrics,  such  as  The  Battle  of  Blenheim,  The  Inch- 
cape  Rock,  and  The  Cataract  of  Lodore.  His  prose  is  better,  and 
his  best  prose  work,  Life  of  Nelson,  is  a  classic.  "The  best  eulogy 
of  Nelson,"  said  Southey,  "is  the  faithful  history  of  his  actions; 
the  best  history,  that  which  shall  relate  them  most  perspicuously." 
Adhering  to  this  ideal,  he  produced  one  of  the  greatest  biographies 
in  English. 

Wilson,  John  (1785-1854),  better  known  by  his  pen-name 
"Christopher  North,"  was  prominent  among  the  magazine  pilots, 
being  the  dominating  spirit  of  Blackwood's  Magazine  from  1825 
until  his  death.  His  criticisms  are  hardly  to  be  called  great, 
though  they  are  usually  more  judicial  than  the  great  Jeffrey's. 
The  best  of  his  essays,  published  with  the  title  Noctes  Ambrosianae 
("Ambrosial  Nights"),  are  imaginary  dialogues  of  prominent  men 
on  questions  of  the  day.  In  these  are  some  striking  characteri- 
zations, among  which  the  most  notable  is  that  of  Wilson's  friend, 
the  Scotch  poet  James  Hogg,  known  in  literature  as  "the  Ettrick 
Shepherd." 

Chapter  Vm  (2)  —  Victorian  Age  (1832-1900) 

Blackmore,  Richard  D.  (1825-1900),  was  schoolmaster,  lawyer, 
poet,  and  romancer.  Not  all  these  designations  together  are  as 
useful  to  describe  Blackmore  as  is  the  mere  phrase,  "author  of 
Lorna  Doone:  A  Romance  of  Exm/)or."  This  is  a  story  of 
Somersetshire  toward  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  with  a 
little  history,  and  with  abundant  romantic  material  of  various 
kinds  —  love,  feuds,  adventure,  a  highwayman,  and  legendary 
deeds.  The  story  has  enjoyed  great  popularity  ever  since  its 
appearance  in  1869. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS         375 

Borrow,  George  (1803-1881),  traveller,  and  chronicler  of  g>T)sy 
life.  He  seems  to  have  possessed  wide  but  inaccurate  information ; 
and  some  have  said  that  his  writing  on  his  principal  subject  is 
superficial.  There  is,  nevertheless,  no  doubt  that  the  English 
conception  of  gypsies  is  due  largely,  if  not  wholly,  to  Sorrow's 
three  books  —  The  Bible  in  Spain,  Lavengro,  and  Romany  Rye. 

Bronte  is  the  family  name  of  three  sisters  who  occupy  a  small 
but  firm  place  in  English  fiction.  Charlotte  (1816-1855)  is 
certainly  the  most  widely  known  of  the  three,  and  by  only  one 
of  her  four  novels  —  Jane  Eyre.  Emily  (1818-1848)  wrote  one 
novel,  Wuthering  Heights,  which  in  some  respects  is  superior  to 
Jane  Eyre,  and  which  some  eminent  critics  consider  entirely 
superior.  Anne  (1820-1849)  wrote  two  novels,  Agnes  Gray,  and 
The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,  the  first  having  an  interest  as  being 
largely  autobiographical. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett  (1806-1861).  For  note  on 
her  life  see  page  349.  Her  best  work  in  poetry  is  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese,  in  which  is  enshrined  her  love  for  her  husband. 
Aurora  Leigh  is  a  sort  of  novel  in  verse  which  has  not  found  many 
admirers.  In  sympathy  with  the  reform  ideals  of  Dickens  and 
others,  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  poems  in  behalf  of  the  downtrodden, 
especially  of  factory  children.  Much  of  her  poetry  is  marred 
by  obscurity,  and  not  altogether  redeemed  by  the  force  and  vigor 
that  characterize  her  husband's. 

Bulwer-Lytton,  Edward  (1803-1873),  was  a  proUfic  novelist, 
highly  esteemed  in  his  day,  but  now  seen  to  be  of  at  least  a  second 
order  of  merit.  The  only  works  clearly  above  his  average  are 
The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  an  historical  romance  of  the  first 
century,  and  The  Last  of  the  Barons,  the  period  of  which  is  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses  (1455-1485). 

Clough,!  Arthur  Hugh  (1819-1861),  was  a  poet  of  unful- 
filled promise,  more  likely  to  live  in  Arnold's  memorial  poem, 
Thyrsis,  than  by  virtue  of  any  writing  of  his  own.  Clough's 
appeal  both  in  subjects  and  manner  is  to  a  very  hmited  audience ; 
and  only  one  of  his  poems  —  Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth  — 
has  had  even  a  moderate  popularity. 

I  The  name  is  pronounced  Kliif. 


376  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Collins,  Wilkie  (1824-1899),  was  author  of  many  mediocre 
novels,  and  of  two  of  real  merit.  In  these  two,  The  Woman  in 
White  and  The  Moonstone,  there  are  very  complicated  and  myste- 
rious plots,  and  the  element  of  suspense  is  strong. 

Dahwin,  Charles  Robert  (1809-1882),  was  a  biologist,  the 
publication  of  whose  Origin  of  Species  in  1859  brought  a  change 
"in  the  whole  intellectual  outlook  of  the  world."  It  was  not 
the  first  work  advocating  the  theory  of  evolution,  but  it  was  the 
first  offering  an  explanation  of  evolution  in  the  organic  kingdom. 
"Darwinism"  has  undergone  much  modification  as  to  details; 
but  its  fundamental  ideas  have  survived  the  most  vigorous  attack, 
and  it  remains  to-day  essentially  true. 

Disraeli,  Benjamin  (1804-1881),  Earl  of  Beaconsfield,  was 
politician  as  well  as  novelist ;  and  his  best  works,  Coningshy  and 
Sybil,  are  pohtical  novels.  In  these  he  introduced  well-known 
people,  frequently  his  political  opponents,  but  under  assumed 
names. 

Fitzgerald,  Edward  (1809-1885),  holds  a  place  in  English 
literature  because  of  his  version  (much  more  than  a  translation) 
of  the  Rubdiydt  (meaning  "quatrains")  of  the  Persian  poet  Omar 
Khayyam. 

Freeman,  Edward  Augustus  (1823-1892),  is  one  of  the  fore- 
most English  historical  writers,  who  made  the  Norman  Conquest 
peculiarly  his  own  field.  The  reader  is  frequently  inclined  to  wish 
for  a  little  less  diffuseness ;  but  this  characteristic  was  the  direct 
result  of  his  desire  to  give  the  whole  truth,  and  Freeman's  History 
of  the  Norman  Conquest  remains  the  best  work  dealing  with  that 
period. 

Froude,  James  Anthony  (1818-1894),  was  an  historian,  and 
disciple  and  biographer  of  Carlyle.  His  most  important  work, 
also  one  of  the  most  important  historical  works  in  Enghsh,  is 
A  History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the  Defeat  of  the 
Spanish  Arynada,  in  twelve  volumes. 

Gaskbll,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  (1810-1865),  was  author  of  several 
novels,  the  most  important  of  which  is  Cranford.  This  story,  the 
scene  of  which  is  an  English  village,  is  probably  the  quietest, 
most  subdued  classic  of  English  fiction ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  a 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        377 

classic  of  unfading  charm.  In  Mary  Barton  and  North  and 
South,  Mrs.  Gaskell  dealt  with  bad  living  conditions  of  the 
laboring  class,  and  so  ranked  herself  among  the  humanitarian 
or  reform  writers. 

Grken,  John  Richard  (1837-1883),  was  the  third  of  the  great 
trio  of  EngUsh  historians  of  the  nineteenth  century.  His  Short 
History  of  the  English  People  is  an  unsurpassed  interpretation 
of  the  nation  considered  from  all  points  of  view  —  political,  social, 
and  literary. 

KiNGSLEY,  Charles  (1819-1875),  was  minister,  professor  of 
history,  naturalist,  novelist.  Only  in  the  last-named  capacity 
is  he  of  interest  to  Uterature.  Four  of  his  novels  have  claims  to 
greatness  :  Yeast  and  Alton  Locke,  dealing  with  social  problems ; 
and  Hypatia  and  Westward  Ho!,  historical  romances.  The 
scene  of  Hypatia  is  Egypt  in  the  fifth  century;  Westward  Ho! 
deals,  in  the  language  of  its  sub-title,  with  "the  voyages  and 
adventvtres  of  Sir  Amyas  Leigh  in  the  reign  of  her  most  gracious 
majesty  Queen  Ehzabeth." 

Mill,  John  Stuart  (1806-1873),  was  educated  apart  from 
other  boys,  and  was  early  instructed  in  subjects  usually  reserved 
for  maturer  years.  The  result  was  an  almost  excessive  develop- 
ment of  the  intellect  at  the  expense  of  the  other  faculties  of  his 
mind.  He  wrote  on  philosophic,  economic,  and  social  subjects. 
His  most  important  works  are :  System  of  Logic,  On  Liberty,  On 
Representative  Government,  Political  Economy. 

Morris,  William  (1834-1896),  was  artist,  social  reformer,  and 
poet.  His  labors  in  the  first  and  second  of  these  capacities  were 
very  varied,  including  architecture,  painting,  interior  decoration, 
and  printing  and  bookbinding.  Most  of  his  poetry  is  narrative ; 
and  although  much  of  this  is  freely  translated  or  adapted  from 
Anglo-Saxon  and  Icelandic  Uterature  and  legend,  it  takes  high 
rank  as  original  work.  The  Earthly  Paradise  is  a  collection  of 
stories  from  various  sources  told  in  a  delightful  style  modeled  on 
the  old  romances.  The  Defence  of  Guinevere  is  one  of  the  best 
modern  poems  dealing  with  Arthurian  legend. 

Newman,  Cardinal  John  Henry  (1801-1890),  became  a 
minister  of  the  Church  of  England  at  the  age  of  twenty-three. 


378  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  twenty  years  later  left  that  faith  for  the  Roman  Cathohc. 
He  was  created  cardinal  in  1879.  Newman  is  a  master  of  style, 
and  has  had  an  immense  influence  on  EngUsh  thought.  Of  his 
many  works  the  most  valuable  and  interesting  is  Apologia  pro 
Vita  Sua  ("Apology  for  His  Own  Life"),  in  which  he  traces  the 
development  of  his  mind  during  the  years  preceding  his  change  of 
faith.  He  is  widely  known  and  loved  to-day  as  the  author  of 
Lead,  Kindly  Light,  probably  the  most  popular  modern  hymn  in 
the  English  language. 

Pater,  Walter  (1839-1894),  was  a  scholarly  critic  who  wrote 
on  hterature,  art,  and  philosophy.  Though  his  style  is  praised 
by  many,  Pater  is  difficult  reading.  His  volumes  that  have  the 
largest  circle  of  readers  are  Studies  in  the  History  of  the  Renaissance 
(art)  and  Appreciations  (literature).  The  latter  contains  a 
notable  essay  on  style. 

Reade,  Charles  (1814-1884),  was  a  novelist  and  plajrwright 
with  a  tendency  to  use  the  novel  as  a  means  to  promote  reforms. 
Put  Yourself  in  his  Place  sets  forth  the  evils  of  trades  unionism, 
which,  in  the  author's  opinion,  greatly  outweighed  its  merits. 
It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  attacks  a  certain  vicious  kind  of 
prison  administration  in  England.  These  works  are  very  sUghtly 
regarded  to-day.  One  book  of  Reade's  which  still  ranks  high  is' 
The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  an  historical  novel  portraying  very 
effectively  the  transition  from  medieval  to  modern  times  in 
Germany  and  Italy. 

RossETTi,  Christina  (1830-1894),  is  to  be  classed  with  Mrs. 
Browning  both  on  the  ground  of  merit  and  on  that  of  subjects. 
She  differs  in  having  written  no  long  poems.  Her  chief  claim  to 
distinction  Ues  in  a  number  of  short  lyrics  on  lofty  and  serious 
subjects.  Her  brother,  Dante  Gabriel  (1828-1882),  reached 
greater  heights  than  she.  He  was  painter  and  poet,  with  a 
fondness  for  the  mystical  and  with  other  qualities  making  against 
popularity.  He  wrote  a  sonnet-sequence  called  The  House  of 
Life,  a  record  of  his  love  for  his  wife,  which  bears  comparison 
with  Mrs.  Browning's  sequence  (see  page  375).  His  one  popular 
poem.  The  Blessed  Damozel,  was  admittedly  inspired  by  Poe's 
The  Raven.  Poe  portrayed  the  bereaved  lover  on  earth ;  Rossetti, 
the  loved  one  in  heaven. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        379 

Trollope,  Anthony  (1815-1882),  satiric  novelist,  was  a 
disciple  of  Thackeray.  His  field,  like  that  of  his  master,  is 
"Society;"  but  it  differs  greatly  in  that,'  instead  of  the  crowded, 
variegated  Ufe  of  London,  Trollope  prefers  the  small  town.  His 
best  books,  a  series  called  the  "Barchester"  novels,  deal  with 
life  and  church  politics  —  the  struggle  for  the  "loaves  and  fishes" 
—  in  a  cathedral  town.  Barchester  Towers  is  generally  named  as 
his  masterpiece. 

Recent  and  Living  Writers 

Austin,  Alfred  (1835-1913),  wrote  three  novels,  some  volumes 
of  criticism,  a  great  amount  of  verse,  and  some  miscellaneous 
journaUstic  pieces.  He  is  chiefly  remembered  as  having  been 
made  poet  laureate  in  1896  in  succession  to  Tennyson.  The 
appointment  was  not  well  received;  and  neither  by  critics, 
cultured  readers,  nor  the  general  reading  public  is  Austin  at  all 
highly  regarded. 

Barrie,  Sir  James  Matthew  (1860-  ),  was  born  in  Kirrie- 
muir, "N.B.,"  as  he  writes  it  in  Who's  Who.  This  means,  not 
New  Brunswick,  as  the  casual  reader  might  suppose,  but  "North 
Britain,"  —  commonly  called  Scotland!  First  known  as  the 
author  of  some  charming  Scotch  stories,  long  and  short  —  the 
best  of  which  is  called  The  hittle  Minister,  he  has  since  1897  been 
one  of  the  most  successful  playwrights.  While  his  plays  are 
without  question  among  the  best  dramatic  work  of  the  day,  his 
success  has  been  in  no  small  measure  due  to  Miss  Maude  Adams, 
also  without  question  the  most  popular  actress  in  America  since 
1897.  In  that  year  she  appeared  in  Sir  James's  dramatization  of 
The  Little  Minister;  since  then  she  has  contributed  no  little  to 
an  enthusiastic  reception  of  five  other  plays  by  him :  Peter 
Pan,  Quality  Street,  What  Every  Woman  Knows,  The  Legend  of 
Leonora,  and  A  Kiss  for  Cinderella.  Peter  Pan  (first  produced, 
1904),  a  beautiful  fairyland  play  for  all  ages,  has  been  revived 
annually  in  New  York  during  Christmas  week,  and  bids  fair 
to  retain  a  remarkable  hold  for  many  years. 

Bennett,  Arnold  (1867-  ),  is  a  writer  of  successful  novels, 
plays,  and  essays.  His  most  ambitious  effort  to  date  (1918) 
seems  to  be  his  trilogy  of  novels  —  Clayhanger,  Hilda  Lessways, 


380  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  These  Twain.  He  has  caught  the  pubhc  taste  with  some 
comedies,  of  which  What  the  Public  Wants  is  perhaps  the  best 
known;  and  with  some  httle  essays  pubUshed  in  handy  form, 
such  as  How  to  Live  on  Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day. 

Bridges,  Robert  (1844-  ),  was  comparatively  unknown 
when  he  was  appointed  poet  laureate  in  1913.  After  being 
graduated  from  Eton  and  from  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford, 
he  practised  medicine  until  1882.  He  has  written  plays,  critical 
essays,  and  lyrics.  All  that  is  worth  while  belongs  in  the  third 
class;  and  even  his  greatest  admirers  admit  that  all  is  the  work 
of  a  very  minor  poet. 

Brooke,  Rupert  (1887-1915),  was  an  Enghsh  poet  of  great 
promise  who  contracted  disease  during  the  Dardanelles  campaign 
and  died  on  board  a  French  hospital  ship.  The  striking  facts 
concerning  his  poetry  are  his  worship  of  beauty,  his  frequent 
references  to  death,  and  his  speculations  on  a  future  hfe.  In  view 
of  his  burial  on  the  island  of  Lemnos,  one  of  a  group  of  sonnets 
entitled  1914  has  a  special  interest : 

The  Soldier 

"If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  forever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  dust  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  a  man. 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air. 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

"And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 

A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 
Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given ; 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;   dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 

And  laughter  learned  of  friends  ;   and  gentleness. 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven." 

Butler,  Samuel  (1835-1902),  deserved,  as  truly  as  did  any 
English  literary  man  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  epithet 
"versatile."  He  was  a  painter,  a  Shaksperean  critic,  a  successful 
sheep  farmer  in  New  Zealand,  a  composer  of  music  after  the 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        381 

manner  of  Handel,  a  critic  and  translator  of  Homer,  author  of 
books  of  scientific  controversy,  romancer,  and  novelist.  His 
place  in  literature  seems  likely  to  depend  finally  on  his  picture  of 
an  ideal  state,  Erewhon,  and  his  novel.  The  Way  of  All  Flesh. 
Some  serious  students  of  Butler  would  add  his  Note-Books. 

Caine,  Hall  (1853-  ),  is  noveUst  and  dramatist.  He  was 
educated  as  an  architect,  and  wrote  on  architectural  subjects, 
but  never  practised  the  profession.  His  first  novel,  The  Shadow 
of  a  Crime,  appeared  in  1885 ;  his  most  famous,  which  also  was 
highly  successful  when  dramatized,  The  Christian,  in  1897.  The 
Woman  Thou  Gavest  Me,  1913,  which  deals  with  a  difficult  social 
problem,  aroused  much  discussion  and  rather  general  condem- 
nation. 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  Keith  (1874-  ),  is  journalist  and 
literary  critic.  Many  of  his  best  newspaper  skits  may  be  foimd 
in  the  volumes  entitled  All  Things  Considered  and  Tremendous 
Trifles.  Perhaps  his  best  critical  work,  much  of  which  is  of  a 
high  order,  is  Robert  Browning  (English  Men  of  Letters  series) ; 
Charles  Dickens:  A  Critical  Study;  and  Criticisms  and  Appre- 
ciations of  Dickens. 

De  Morgan,  William  (1839-1917),  adopted  art  as  a  profession, 
studied  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and  became  known  for  his  work 
in  stained  glass  and  ceramics.  At  the  age  of  sixty-seven  he 
published  a  leisurely,  realistic  novel,  Joseph  Vance,  which  was 
well  received.  A  year  later  came  Alice-for-Short,  and  a  year 
after  that.  Somehow  Good,  both  of  which  approached  the  best 
traditions  of  the  Victorian  novel.  In  four  other  novels  following 
these  there  is  a  distinct  falling  off  in  merit  and  appeal. 

DoBsoN,  Austin  (1840-  ),  first  attracted  attention  as  a 
poet  in  1868,  when  he  published  the  first  original  "ballade"  in 
English.  This  is  one  of  the  French  artificial  forms  of  verse 
which  have  attracted  a  few  real  j>oets  in  other  countries.  Other 
forms  of  this  class,  in  which  also  Dobson  has  excelled,  are  called 
rondeaus,  rondels,  and  villanelles.  Since  1885  he  has  given 
himself  mostly  to  biographical  and  critical  prose,  dealing  chiefly 
with  eighteenth-century  writers.  Both  his  prose  and  his  verse 
are  highly  valued  by  critics. 


382  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Doyle,  Sir  Arthur  Conan  (1859-  ),  physician  and  novel- 
ist, was  knighted  for  his  professional  service  in  the  South  African 
war  (1899-1902).  By  the  world  he  will  be  remembered  as  the 
author  of  clever  detective  stories,  and  the  creator  of  one  remark- 
able character  —  Sherlock  Holmes.  The  stories  of  the  great 
detective  have  been  translated  into  most  modern  languages ;  and 
they  have  been  as  great  favorites  in  Russia  and  Japan  as  in  England 
and  America. 

Galsworthy,  John  (1867-  ),  is  novelist  and  dramatist, 
reaUstic  portrayer  of  commonplace  people  and  scenes.  He  is, 
like  so  many  recent  writers  of  fiction,  much  interested  in  problems 
of  society ;  he  is  at  the  same  time  a  master  of  his  art.  His  best 
novels,  if  one  must  choose,  are  probably  Fraternity  and  The 
Country  House.  One  of  his  best  plays.  Strife,  deals  with  the 
capital  and  labor  problem. 

Hardy,  Thomas  (1840-  ),  aspires  to  fame  as  a  poet,  but  it 
seems  clear  that  he  is  destined  to  be  known  as  novelist  only. 
Between  1870  and  1897  he  wrote  fourteen  novels,  the  scenes  of 
which  are  in  Southwestern  England,  which  he  designates  as 
"Wessex."  Although  there  is  hardly  a  weak  novel  in  the  series, 
critical  opinion  is  agreed  that  three  are  superior  to  the  rest,  and 
are  all  but  sure  of  a  place  among  the  greatest  English  novels. 
These  are  Far  from  the  Madding  'Crowd,  The  Return  of  the  Native, 
and  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.  Mr.  Hardy  is  a  humorist  of  the 
first  order,  and  his  portrayal  of  the  Wessex  peasants  is  delightful 
in  this  kind.  Because,  however,  of  the  sombre  cast  of  his  stories, 
and  because  of  his  apparent  belief  in  the  domination  of  life  by 
events  beyond  human  control,  he  is  by  many  regarded  as  a  "pessi- 
mist," a  "fatalist,"  or  even  a  "pagan."  Another  view  is  that  he 
is  "a  rigid  moralist,"  whose  observation  of  life  has  impressed 
upon  him  the  truth  that  "man  may  be  forced  to  reap  where  he 
has  not  sown." 

Henley,  William  Ernest  (1849-1903),  was  editor,  critic, 
poet,  and  friend  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  In  collaboration 
with  Stevenson  he  wrote  several  plays.  His  poems  were  well 
received  by  a  small  but  competent  circle,  and  his  critical  essays 
are  valuable  both  in  themselves  and  for  their  influence  toward  a 
higher  class  of  journalistic  work.     Most  of  his  essays  and  poems 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS         383 

have  been  collected.  Of  the  former  the  best  are  to  be  found  in 
Views  and  Reviews;  of  the  latter,  in  A  Book  of  Verse  and  London 
Voluntaries. 

Jones,  Henry  Arthur  (1851-  ),  has  been  one  of  the  fore- 
most Enghsh  dramatists  since  1884,  when  he  published  the  first 
of  his  social  comedies  —  Saints  and  Sinners.  His  best  play  is 
The  Rogue's  Comedy.  A  number  of  his  plays  have  been  translated 
into  other  languages  and  performed  with  success  in  several  coun- 
tries of  Europe. 

Kipling,  Rudyard  (1865-  ),  probably  the  most  popular 
English  poet  since  Tennyson  and  one  of  the  most  popular  prose 
writers,  was  born  in  Bombay.  Much  of  his  best  work  deals  with 
life  in  India ;  well  represented  by  Wee  Willie  Winkie  and  by  several 
stories  in  The  Day's  Work.  His  Ballads  and  Barrack  Room  Ballads 
still  find  widespread  favor,  notably,  "On  the  Road  to  Mandalay," 
"Danny  Deever,"  "Fuzzy  Wuzzy,"  and  "Tommy  Atkins." 
The  Jungle  Book,  The  Second  Jungle  Book,  and  Just  So  Stories, 
though  written  for  children,  contain  much  of  interest  and  profit 
to  adult  readers.  His  writings  during  the  present  war  have  not 
been  highly  significant;  but  some  things,  like  The  Outlaws,  for 
example,  a  poem  on  the  German  crime  against  Belgium,  are 
vigorous  and  worth  remembering.  His  greatest  achievement  is 
The  Recessional,  written  for  Queen  Victoria's  jubilee  (1897). 

Lang,  Andrew  (1844—1912),  was  a  versatile  Scotchman,  born 
at  Selkirk  (Scott's  county),  and  educated  at  Edinburgh  Academy 
and  St.  Andrew's  University.  He  wrote  poems,  collected  in  seven 
volumes  ;  translated  (in  collaboration)  the  Hind  and  the  Odyssey ; 
made  valuable  contributions  to  Homeric  criticism  ;  made  valuable 
researches  in  Scottish  history;  wrote  important  works  on  folk- 
lore ;  and  compiled  a  number  of  excellent  volumes  of  fairy  tales. 
Few  writers  in  late  days  have  done  so  much  work  of  the  first  rank 
in  fields  so  varied. 

Lee,  Sir  Sidney  (1859-  ),  is  one  of  the  foremost  living 
Hterary  critics,  and  joint  editor  (with  Sir  Leshe  Stephen)  of  the 
monumental  Dictionary  of  National  Biography.  His  special  field 
is  the  sixteenth  century;  his  most  important  work  is  A  Ldfe  of 
William  Shakespeare,  first  published  in  1898,  revised  and  re- 
written, 1915. 


384  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Locke,  William  John  (1863-  ),  was  born  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  educated  at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  He 
became  an  architect,  and  was  secretary  of  the  Royal  Institute  of 
British  Architects  from  1897  to  1907.  He  has  written  some  plays, 
but  is  best  known  as  author  of  several  novels,  of  which  the  most 
successful  are  The  Beloved  Vagabond  and  The  Fortunate  Youth. 

MASteFiELD,  John  (1875-  ),  is  lyric,  narrative,  and  dramatic 
poet.  In  1916  and  1917  he  lectured  in  America  on  aspects  of  the 
war  and  on  English  poets.  He  saw  service  with  a  hospital  unit 
at  the  Dardanelles.  "No  poet,"  says  one  critic,  "sings  more 
clearly  of  the  real  England.  No  poet  is  singing  more  directly 
to  his  people  than  Masefield."  The  Tragedy  of  Nan  is  generally 
regarded  as  his  best  play.  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street  and 
Dauber  are  among  his  best  narratives  in  verse,  the  field  in  which 
he  seems  most  sure  of  a  distinguished  place. 

Meredith,  George  (1828-1909),  was  poet,  novehst,  and 
reformer.  His  style  is  at  times  obscure;  and  the  difficulty  of 
understanding  him  has  resulted  in  his  never  achieving  great 
popularity.  It  is  doubtless  as  true  of  Meredith  as  of  Robert 
Browning  that  he  was  never  intentionally  obscure,  but  that  he 
also  never  intended  anything  he  wrote  as  a  "substitute  for  a 
cigar,  or  a  game  of  dominoes,  to  an  idle  man."  Although  Meredith 
wrote  some  poems  of  permanent  value,  it  is  as  novelist  that  he 
takes  his  most  certain  place  in  literature.  He  is  very  clearly  in 
the  first  rank  of  English  novelists.  He  is  a  psychological  reafist, 
much  concerned  with  the  frailties  of  his  race  and  nation,  and  aiming 
at  reform.  His  best  novels  are  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel, 
setting  forth  the  failure  of  a  fantastic  scheme  of  education  ; 
Beaucha7np's  Career,  portraying  a  political  ideaUst ;  and  Diana  of 
the  Crossways  and  One  of  Our  Conquerors,  attacks  upon  generally 
accepted  ideas  regarding  marriage.  The  Adventures  of  Harry 
Richmond  is  perhaps  his  best  as  a  story;  that  is,  it  is  fuller  of 
incident  than  his  others.  It  contains  also  two  well-drawn  and 
interesting  boys  of  an  age  which  Meredith  particularly  excelled 
in  drawing. 

NoYES,  Alfred  (1880-  ),  has  been  pubHshing  verse  of  merit 
since  1902.  Besides  some  narratives  and  a  large  number  of 
lyrics  showing  poetic  skill  and  imagination,  Noyes  has  written 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        385 

an  epic  poem,  Drake,  and  a  drama,  Sherwood.  In  1914  he  became 
visiting  professor  of  English  literature  at  Princeton,  and  in  the 
years  following  gave  readings  from  his  works  and  lectm-es  on 
various  phases  of  the  war. 

Phillips,  Stephen  (1869-1915),  was  a  writer  of  l3rric  and 
narrative  verse,  and  of  drama  in  verse.  Perhaps  his  best  narrative 
is  Marpessa,  story  of  a  maiden  who,  allowed  to  choose  the  god 
Apollo  or  a  human  being  Idas  for  her  husband,  chose  Idas.  He 
wrote  seven  dramas,  of  which  the  best  are  probably  Paolo  and 
Francesco,  based  on  Dante,  and  The  Sin  of  David,  based  on  an 
incident  of  the  English  Civil  War  (1643-4). 

PiNERO,  Sir  Arthur  Wing  (1855-  ),  has  been  one  of  the 
foremost  dramatists  of  the  world  since  about  1890.  Previously 
he  was  an  actor,  and  he  has  in  his  writing  made  good  use  of  his 
experience  behind  the  footlights.  He  has  written  a  large  number 
of  plays  —  farces,  comedies,  and  tragedies.  In  the  opinion  of 
many  critics  he  has  written  no  better  tragedy  than  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  (1893),  and  no  better  comedies  than  The  Princess 
and  the  Butterfly  (1897)  and  Trelawney  of  the  Wells  (1898).  Among 
later  plays,  Mid-channel  (1909)  is  highly  regarded  by  critics,  but 
has  not  met  with  so  cordial  a  reception  from  the  public. 

Shaw,  George  Bernard  (1856-  ),  is  undoubtedly  the 
most  conspicuous  figure  among  Uving  EngUsh  writers.  Whether 
he  is  the  greatest,  or  merely  a  sensationalist,  is  a  matter  of  dis- 
agreement. He  has  written  several  novels  of  no  special  merit; 
a  host  of  essays,  long  and  short,  on  a  miscellaneous  array  of 
subjects ;  and  about  twenty-five  plays.  Upon  the  last  group  of 
writings  Shaw's  rank,  it  seems  likely,  will  finally  rest.  They  are 
all  clever,  most  of  them  are  brilhant ;  and  he  has  great  power  in 
impressing  his  theme  on  the  minds  of  his  audience.  Many  think 
he  has  never  surpassed  The  Devil's  Disciple,  one  of  his  early 
efforts.  Other  plays  which  seem  likely  to  hve  are  Arms  and  the 
Man,  Man  and  Superman,  and  Androcles  and  the  Lion. 

Sinclair,  May  (  ?  -  ),  began  her  literary  career  in  1887 
with  a  volume  of  poems.  In  1895  appeared  her  first  short  story ; 
in  1897,  her  first  novel.  Not  until  1904,  with  The  Divine  Fire, 
did  she  attain  a  real  success ;  and  not  until  this  novel  had  made  a 
stir  in  America  did  the  writer  obtain  a  following  in  England. 


386  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Since  then  she  has  written  a  number  of  novels,  the  most  recent 
of  which  (1918),  The  Tree  of  Heaven,  bids  fair  to  repeat  the  success 
of  The  Divine  Fire.  Miss  Sinclair  has  pubHshed  one  notable 
volume  in  criticism,  The  Three  Brontes;  and  an  interesting 
Journal  of  Impressions  in  Belgium  (1915). 

Spencer,  Herbert  (1820-1903),  was  one  of  the  foremost 
scientific  writers  of  the  Victorian  period.  He  wrote  on  economics, 
biology,  ethics,  psychology,  and  sociology ;  but  his  chief  value  is 
not  so  much  in  the  substance  of  his  writings  as  in  the  clearness 
of  his  method  and  his  style.  Without  being  "popular"  in  the 
way  a  lyceum  lecturer  on  science  is  popular,  Spencer  succeeded 
in  making  intelhgible  to  unscientific  people  many  fundamental 
scientific  facts  and  principles.  His  Autobiography  is  very  interest- 
ing and  well  written. 

Stephen,  Sir  Leslie  (1832-1904),  was  critic  and  biographer, 
editor  of  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography.  Though  his 
studies  and  writings  cover  many  centuries,  he  is  at  his  best  m 
treating  writers  after  1700;  especially,  those  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Besides  the  general  direction  of  the  Dictionary  and  the 
contribution  of  about  thirty  articles  to  it,  his  most  important 
work  is  in  Hours  in  a  Library,  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  and  History 
of  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles  (1837-1909),  was  a  great 
critic,  and  the  last  of  the  greater  Victorian  poets.  As  critic  he 
had  marked  power  of  appreciation;  but  he  was  too  vigorous  in 
his  praise  or  condemnation  to  convince  most  readers.  He  is 
especially  noted  for  the  variety  and  skill  of  his  metres;  and  he 
wrote  a  number  of  dramas  and  some  non-dramatic  narratives. 
Of  the  dramas,  Atalanta  in  Calydon  has  had  the  greatest  success, 
of  the  narratives,  Tristram  of  Lyonnesse,  an  Arthurian  story,  holds 
first  place.     The  best  of  his  lyrics  deal  with  the  sea. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry  (1851-  ),  is  a  novelist,  niece  of 
Matthew  Arnold.  She  came  into  prominence  in  1888  with  the 
publication  of  Robert  Elsmere,  a  novel  dealing  with  the  change 
of  an  English  minister  from  orthodoxy  to  liberalism,  and  dis- 
cussing at  great  length  the  "higher  criticism"  of  the  Bible.  In 
recent  years  she  has  dealt  with  social  questions,  notably  in  The 


SUPPLEMENTARY  LIST  OF  AUTHORS        387 

Marriage  of  William  Ashe,  Femoick's  Career,  and  The  Testing  of 
Diana  Mallory. 

Watson,  William  (1858-  ),  is  a  poet  who  some  critics 
think  should  be  at  present  England's  laureate.  In  general  it 
may  be  said  that  his  work  is  too  intellectual  and  too  highly  finished 
to  attain  wide  recognition.  He  gained  considerable  notoriety 
in  1909  by  The  Woman  with  a  Serpent's  Tongue,  beUeved  to  have 
been  aimed  at  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  English  statesman. 

Wells,  Herbert  George  (1866-  ),  may  be  said  to  have 
shared  for  some  years  the  spotlight  on  the  Uterary  stage  with 
Shaw.  At  the  beginning  of  his  career  he  wTote  stories  with  a 
scientific  turn,  which  caused  him  to  be  compared  with  Jules  Verne. 
Later  he  wrote  novels  deaUng  with  various  social  problems,  such 
as  Tono-Bungay,  a  satire  on  successful  quackery ;  and  Marriage. 
Since  the  war  began  he  has  written  two  novels  of  the  moment, 
Mr.  Britling  Sees  It  Through  and  The  Soul  of  a  Bishop,  which 
picture  the  development  of  the  British  people  in  the  stress  of  the 
conflict.  The  first  of  these  war  novels  had  a  phenomenal  success  ; 
Mr.  Wells  has  also  written  essays  of  which  the  most  important 
is  perhaps  God,  the  Invisible  King,  an  extended  effort  to  frame 
a  reUgion  for  a  thinking  man  of  the  twentieth  century. 

Yeats,  William  Butler  (1865-  ),  is  the  most  notable 
figure  in  the  so-called  "Celtic  Renaissance,"  or  Irish  rebirth  in 
literature.  His  most  striking  quality  is  shown  in  a  realistic  treat- 
ment of  the  world  of  unreality ;  and  it  is  in  this  that  he  resembles 
somewhat  the  writers  (mostly  nameless)  of  Ireland's  great  age  of 
literature  —  about  the  seventh  to  the  twelfth  century.  Of  all 
his  lyric  and  dramatic  works  the  best-known  is  probably  The 
Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  an  exquisite  fairy  play. 


SELECTED   LIST  OF   BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 
CRITICAL   WORKS 

In  view  of  the  thousands  of  valuable  works  on  English  literature, 
the  following  can  be  only  suggestive.  In  compiling  it  the  writer  has 
had  in  mind  usefulness  for  high  school  students  and  teachers,  though 
many  standard  works  must  be  included  which  would  be  in  place  in 
any  hbrary.  Works  listed  as  wholes  in  footnotes  are  omitted  here  : 
e.g.,  on  ballads,  page  36 ;  on  Shakspere,  page  79 ;  others  on  pages  91, 
119,  120,  etc. 

1.   General  Works. 

Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature,  14  vols.  (Putnams.) 
Separate  chapters  by  leading  specialists  of  the  world.  Invaluable, 
but  of  by  no  means  equal  merit  throughout. 

Garnett  and  Gosse,  Illustrated  History  of  English  Literature,  4 
vols.  (Macmillan.)  Chiefly  noteworthy,  as  its  title  indicates,  for 
its  illustrations,  though  the  matter  represents  the  mature  work  of 
two  eminent  English  scholars  and  men  of  letters. 

Saintsbuky,  Short  History  of  English  Literature.  (Longmans.) 
Probably  the  best  one- volume  work  on  the  subject,  but  quite  un- 
suited  to  classroom  use. 

Taine,  History  of  English  Literature.  (Holt.)  Interesting  as  the 
estimate  of  a  cultured  Frenchman. 

Ryland,  Chronological  Outlines  of  English  Literature.  (Mac- 
millan.) Gives  names  and  dates  of  authors  and  writings,  both  by 
years  and  alphabetically  by  authors. 

Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  70  vols.,  with  two  supplements 
and  others  to  follow.  (Macmillan.)  Contains  sketches  of  all 
Enghshmen  (exclusive  of  the  hving)  who  have  a  place  in  the  memory 
of  their  countrymen. 

Green,  Short  History  of  the  English  People.  (Macmillan.)  See 
page  377. 

388 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  WORKS      389 

Gardiner,  Student's  History  of  England.     (Longmans.) 

Andrews,  History  of  England.  (Allyn  and  Bacon.)  These  last 
two  are  among  the  best  single- volume  historical  books. 

2.  Series. 

Handbooks  of  English  Literature,  ed.  Hales.  (Macmillan.)  Each 
volume  is  complete  in  itself,  and  forms  a  good  introduction  to  the 
period  with  which  it  deals.  —  Snell,  The  Age  of  Alfred  (664r-1154) ; 
Snell,  "The  Age  of  Transition  (1400-1580),  2  vols. ;  Seccombe  and 
Allen,  The  Age  of  Shakespeare  (1579-1631),  2  vols. ;  Masterman, 
The  Age  of  Milton  (1632-1660) ;  Garnett,  The  Age  of  Dryden  (1660- 
1700) ;  Dennis,  The  Age  of  Pope  (1700-1744) ;  Seccombe,  The  Age 
of  Johnson  (1748-1798) ;  Herford,  The  Age  of  Wordsworth  (1798- 
1832) ;  Walker,  The  Age  of  Tennyson  (1830-1870). 

Periods  of  European  Literature,  ed.  Saintsbury.  (Scribners.)  — 
Ker,  The  Dark  Ages;  Saintsbury,  The  Flourishing  of  Romance  and 
the  Rise  of  Allegory;  Snell,  The  Fourteenth  Century;  Smith,  G. 
Gregory,  The  Transition  Period;  Saintsbury,  The  Earlier  Renais- 
sance; Hannay,  The  Later  Renaissance;  Grierson,  The  First  Half 
of  the  Seventeenth  Century;  Elton,  The  Augustan  Ages;  Millar, 
The  Mid-Eighteenth  Century;  Vaughan,  The  Romantic  Revolt; 
Omond,  The  Romantic  Triumph;  Saintsbury,  The  Later  Nine- 
teenth Century. 

Types  of  Literature,  ed.  NeUson.  (Houghton.)  —  Thorndike, 
Tragedy;  Chandler,  The  Literature  of  Roguery;  Gerould,  Saints' 
Lives;  Schelling,  The  English  Lyric;  Gummere,  The  Popular 
Ballad. 

English  Men  of  Letters.  (Macmillan.)  Short  biographies  by  well- 
known  scholars  and  critics.  Included  are  the  following  writers 
treated  in  this  book :  Addison,  Arnold,  Austen,  Bacon,  Browne, 
Browning,  Bunyan,  Burke,  Burns,  Byron,  Carlyle,  Chaucer,  Cole- 
ridge, Cowper,  Defoe,  DeQuincey,  Dickens,  Dryden,  George  Eliot, 
Fielding,  Fitzgerald,  Goldsmith,  Gray,  Hazlitt,  Johnson,  Keats, 
Lamb,  Landor,  Macaulay,  Milton,  Moore,  Morris,  Pater,  Pope, 
Richardson,  Rossetti,  Ruskin,  Scott,  Shakespeare,  Shelley,  Sheridan, 
Sidney,  Southey,  Spenser,  Sterne,  Swift,  Taylor,  Tennyson,  Thack- 
eray, Thomson,  Wordsworth. 

Great  Writers.  (Walter  Scott.)  A  series  similar  to  the  preceding 
with  excellent  bibliographies.  Includes  Austen,  Charlotte  Bronte, 
Browning,    Bunyan,    Burns,    Byron,    Carlyle,    Coleridge,    Darwin, 


390  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Dickens,  George  Eliot,  Goldsmith,  Johnson,  Keats,  Milton,  Rossetti, 
Scott,  Shelley,  Sheridan,  Smollett,  Thackeray. 

Literary  Lives,  ed.  Robertson  NicoU.  (Scribners.)  Includes 
Arnold,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Bunyan,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  Hazlitt,  Newman. 

3.   Collections. 

Ward,  The  English  Poets,  4  vols.  (Macmillan.)  Selections  from 
the  great  poets  and  from  a  large  number  of  minor  poets  from  Chaucer 
to  the  present  time.  Contains  also  some  excellent  introductory 
essays. 

Craik,  English  Prose,  5  vols.  (Macmillan.)  On  same  plan  as 
the  preceding,  and  aims  to  do  for  prose  what  Ward  does  for  poetry. 

Among  one-volume  collections  of  value,  but  not  well  adapted  to 
use  in  secondary  schools,  may  be  mentioned  the  following :  Manly, 
English  Prose  and  Poetry  (Ginn)  ;  Newcomer- Andrews,  Twelve  Cen- 
turies of  English  Poetry  and  Prose  (Scott,  Foresman  and  Co.) ;  Pan- 
coast,  English  Prose  and  Verse  (Holt) ;  Cunliffe,  Pyre,  and 
Young,  Century  Readings  in  English  Literature  (Century  Co.) ; 
Snyder  and  Martin,  Book  of  English  Literature  (Macmillan). 

All  books  in  groups  1  and  2  contain  bibliographies.  The  fullest, 
which  include  the  titles  of  practically  all  works  of  importance  on 
English  literature,  as  well  as  complete  lists  of  the  authors'  works, 
are  to  be  found  in  the  Cambridge  History  and  the  Dictionary  of  Na- 
tional Biography. 


INDEX 


Absalom  and  Achitophel,  127. 
Adam  Bede,  306,  310-311. 
Addison,  Joseph,  155  ff. 
Adonais,  57,  257,  343. 

^LFRIC,  3. 

Alchemist,  The,  84,  216. 

Alexander  and  CaTnpaspe,  50. 

Alexander's  Feast,  129. 

Alfred  the  Great,  9,  10-12,  13, 
16. 

Amorctti,  55. 

Ancient  Mariner,  Rime  of  the,  36, 
264. 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,   12-13. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  127. 

Apology  for  Idlers,  318,  363. 

Arcadia,  52,  213. 

Areopagitica,  105. 

Argument  against  Abolishing  Chris- 
tianity, 143. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  17,  235,  285, 
328-335. 

Arthurian  Legends,  16,  56,  109, 
343-344. 

AscHAM,  Roger,  48,  367. 

Astrcea  Redux,  125. 

Astrophel  and  Stella,  53. 

As  You  Like  It,  50,  72,  79. 

Austen,  Jane,  272,  282-284. 

Austin,  Alfred,  379. 

Bacon,  Francis,  40,  57-61,  85,  94. 
Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  314. 
Ballads,  "Popular,"  34-36. 
Barrie,  J.  M.,  379. 
Battle  of  Maldon,  12. 
Battle  of  Otterburn,  35. 
Battle  of  the  Books,  142. 
Beaumont,  Francis,  82. 


Beda,  the  "Venerable,"  6,  8-9, 

10. 
Bennett,  Arnold,  379. 
Beowulf,  3-5. 
Bible  (translations),  85. 
Blackmore,  Richard  D.,  374. 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  257, 306, 338. 
Blake,  William,  371. 
Bleak  House,  302. 
Bonnie  George  Campbell,  36. 
Book  of  the  Duchess,  25.  26. 
Borrow,  George,  375. 
BoswELL,   James,    123,    183,    184- 

186,  273. 
Bride   of    Lammermoor,    The,    279, 

280,  284  n.  1. 
Bridges,  Robert,  380. 
Broken  Heart,  The,  82. 
Bronte,  Anne,  375. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  297,  375. 
Bronte,  Emily,  375. 
Brooke,  Rupert,  380. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  89.  113,  117. 
Browning,    Elizabeth    Barrett, 

349-350,  375. 
BROw^^NG,  Robert,  346-353. 
Brunanburh,  Battle  of,  12-13. 
Bulwer-Lytton,  Edward,  375. 
BuNYAN,  John,  129-134. 
Burke,  Edmund,  192-195. 
Burns,  Robert,  204-213. 
Bussy  d'Ambois,  82. 
Butler,  Samuel  (1612-1680),  370. 
Butler,  Samuel  (1835-1902),  380. 
Byron,    George    Noel    Gordon, 

Lord,  242-250,  337. 


CiEDMON,  5,  6. 

Caine,  Hall,  381. 


391 


392 


INDEX 


Campaign,   The,  161. 

Campbell.Thomas,  372. 

Canterbury  Tales,  20,  25,  27-30,  31. 

Carew,  Thomas,  88,  90,  93. 

Carlyle,  .Jane  Welsh,  291,  293. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  185,  242,  289- 
296. 

Castle  of  Indolence,  175,  247. 

Castle  of  Otranto,  218. 

Catiline,  83. 

Cavaliers,  88  £f. 

Caxton,  William,  37-38. 

Chapman,  George,  82,  368. 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  371. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  1,  24-32,  33. 

Chesterfield,  the  Earl  of,  181 

Chesterton,  G.  K.,  304,  335,  381. 

Childe  Harold,  57,  246,  275. 

Christmas  Carol,  A,  300. 

Christ  (Caedraon's),  6. 

Christabel,  240. 

Chronicle,  Anglo-Saxon,  12-13. 

Clarissa  Harlowe,  215. 

Cloud,  The,  253. 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  375. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  226, 
236-242. 

Collier,  Jeremy,   134. 

Collins,  Wilkie,  376. 

Collins,  William,  195-196. 

Comus,  85,  101. 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 
Eater,  266,  268,  271. 

Congreve,  William,  370. 

Corinna's  Going  a-Maying,  97. 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  205. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  309. 

CowPER,  William,  200-204. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  The,  300. 

Crossing  the  Bar,  342. 

Culture  and  Anarchy,  331. 

Cursor  Mundi,  19. 

Cymbeline,  17,  44,  79. 

Cynewulf,  5,  6. 

Daniel  Deronda,  308. 
Dante,  41. 

Darwin,  Charles  Robert,  318, 
376. 


David  and  Bethsabe,  69. 

David  Balfour,  361. 

David   Copperfield,    297,    298,    299, 

302,  303. 
Death  of  Blanche  the  Duchess,  25,  26. 
Defence  of  Poesy,  52. 
Defoe,  Daniel,  150-155. 
Dekker,  Thomas,  82. 
De  Morgan,  William,  381. 
De  Quincey,   Thomas,   117,  266- 

272. 
Deserted  Village,  187. 
Dickens,  Charles,  297-304. 
Dictionary  (.Johnson's),  180. 
Disraeli,  Benjamin,  376. 
DoBSON,  Austin,  381. 
Doctor  Fau^tus,  70. 
Doctor     Jekyll     and     Mr.     Hyde, 

Strange  Case  of,  356. 
Don  Juan,  249. 
Donne,  John,  368. 
Douglas,  Gavin,  33. 
Doyle,  A.  Conan,  382. 
Drake,  Sir  Francis,  48. 
Drama  before  Elizabeth,  62  ff. 
Drapier's  Letters,  147. 
Drayton,  Michael,  368. 
Dream-Children,  265. 
Dryden,  John,  123-129. 
Dunbar,  William,  33. 
Dunciad,  The,  168. 
Duiy,  Ode  to,  230. 

Ecclesiastical  History,  9. 

Edinburgh  Review,  245,  246. 

Edward  I,  67. 

Edward  II,  70. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard, 197,  198. 

Elene.  6. 

"Eliot,   George,"    296,   304-311. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  42,  46  ff. 

Emerson  (Arnold  on),  332. 

Empedocles  on  Etna,  330. 

Endymion,  257. 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers, 246. 

English  Humourists  of  the  Eigh- 
teenth Century,  314. 


INDEX 


393 


Enoch  Arden,  341. 

Epithalamion,  55. 

Essay  on  Criticism,  166. 

Essay  on  Man,  169,  170. 

Essays  (Bacon's),  58. 

Essays  in  Criticism,  330. 

Essays  of  Elia,  265. 

Euphues,  46,  47,  50-51,  213. 

Evans,       Mary      Ann       ("George 

Eliot"),  296,  304. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  57,  259. 
Everyman,  65. 
Evolution,  318-319. 
Exeter  Book,  2. 

Fables  (Dryden's),  129 
Fairie  Queene,  54,  55,  56. 
Fielding,  Henry,  215-217. 
FiTZGER.*.LD,  Edward,  376. 
Fletcher,  John,  82. 
Ford,  John,  81. 
Fortunes  of  Nigel,   The,  279. 
Four  P's,    The,   66. 
Frederick  the  Great,  293. 
Freeman,  Edward  Augustus,  376. 
French  Revolution  (Carlyle's),  292. 
Friar  BcLcon  and  Friar  Bungay,  69. 
Froude,  James  Anthony,  376. 
Fuller,  Thomas,  369. 

Galsworthy,  John,  382. 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  67,  69. 
Gaskell,  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  376. 
Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight,  Sir, 

19. 
Genesis  and   Exodus   (the    Csedmo- 

nian),  6. 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,   16-17. 
Godwin,  William,  252. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  186-192. 
Good-Natured  Man,   191. 
Gorboduc,  46,  66. 
Gossip  on  Romance,  A,  360. 
GowER,  John,  367. 
Grace    Abounding    to    the    Chief   of 

Sinners,  130. 
Gray,  Thomas,  196-200,  218. 
Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a,  255. 
Green,  John  Richard,  377. 


Greene,  Robert,  69,  74. 
Groatsworth  of  Wit,  A,  74. 
Gulliver's  Travels,  136,  146-147,  213. 
Guy  Mannering,  275,  277,  279,  280. 

Hamlet,  70,  79,  81. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  297,  382. 

Hathaway,  Anne,  73. 

Havelok  the  Dane,  17. 

Hazlitt,  William,  242,  372. 

Heart  of  Midlothian,  The,  279,  280. 

Henley,  William  Ernest,  382. 

Henry  Esmond,  313. 

Henry  IV,  79. 

Henry  V,  79. 

Hero  and  Leander,  72. 

Heroes  and  Hero-Worship,  293,  294. 

Herrick,  Robert,  89,  90,  93-98. 

Hesperides,  95. 

Heywood,  John,  66. 

Heywood,  Thomas,  77. 

Hind  and  the  Panther, The,  128. 

Historia  Regum  Britannice,  16. 

Hobbes,  Thomas,  59. 

Holinshed,  Ralph,  46. 

Homer,  Chapman's  translation,  82. 

Homer,  Pope's  translation,  167,  177, 

323. 
Hooker,  Richard,  368. 
House  of  Fame,  27. 
Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey, 

41,  42,  43-44. 
Humphrey  Clinker,  217. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  256,  372. 
Huxley,  Thomas  Henry,  1,  316- 

322. 
Hycke-scomer,  65. 
Hydriotaphia,  115. 

Idylls  of  the  King,  44,  341,  342. 
II  Penseroso,  98,  100,  103. 
Immortality,  Intimations  of,  230. 
In  Memoriam,  339,  342. 
Interludes,  65. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  285,  373. 
Jew  of  Malta,  The,  70. 
John  Gilpin,  The  Diverting  History 
of,  202. 


394 


INDEX 


Johnson,  Dk.  Samuel,  1,  125,  176 

ff. 
Jones,  Henry  Arthur,  383. 
JoNsoN,  Ben,  71,  81,  82-85,  94. 
Joseph  Andrews,  215. 
Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  151. 
Juliana,  Life  of  Saint,  6. 
Julius  Ccesar,  79,  82,  84. 

Keats,  John,  1,  57,  255-260. 

Kemp  Owyne,  34. 

Kidnapped,  361. 

King  and  No  King,  A,  82. 

King  Horn,  17. 

King  John  (Bale's),  66. 

King  Lear,  17,  44,  69,  79. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  297,  377. 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  34,  383. 

Knight's  Tale,  26,  n. 

Kubla  Khan,  240. 

Lady  of  the  Lake,  The,  274. 

L' Allegro,  97,  98,  100,  103. 

Lamb,  Charles,  1,  236,  261-266. 

Lamb,  Mary,  262. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  373. 

Lang,  Andrew,  302,  383. 

Langland,  William,  20,  21-22. 

Lanier,  Sidney,  364. 

Layamon,  17,  367. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  The,  21  A. 

Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  288. 

Lee,  Sir  Sidney,  383. 

Legend  of  Good  Women,  27. 

Legend  of  Montrose,  A,  279,  303. 

Legouis  (French  critic)  on  Words- 
worth, 232. 

Life  and  Death  of  Mr.  Badman,  132'. 

Life  of  Johnson  (Boswell's),  185, 
273. 

Lives  of  the  Poets  (Johnson's),  177, 
182. 

Locke,  William  John,  384. 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson,  273. 

Locksley  Hall,  339,  343. 

Lodging  for  the  Night,  A,  356,  361. 

London,  176. 

Lotos-Eaters,  57,  343. 

Lovelace,  Richard,  88,  90,  92. 


Love's  Labour's  Lost,  51,  78,  80. 

Lucrece,  74. 

Lycidas,  101,  177. 

Lydgate,  John,  33. 

Lyly,  John,  46,  49-51,  213. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  34,  226,  257,  285. 

Macaulay,    Thomas    Babinoton, 

1,  285-289. 
Macbeth,  44,  79,  81. 
Mac  Flecknoe,  128. 
Macpherson,  James,  371. 
Maid's  Tragedy,  The,  82. 
Maldon,  Battle  of,  12. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  33, 34, 38-39. 
Mandeville,   Sir  John,   22-24. 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  70-72. 
Marmion,  274. 
Marston,  John,  77. 
Marvell,  Andrew,  369. 
Masefield,  John,  384. 
Masks,  84,  101. 
Merchant  of  Venice,  79. 
Meredith,  George,  290  and  n.  2, 

297,  384. 
Meres,  Francis,  75. 
Merry  Men,  The,  362. 
Michael,  230,  232. 
Middlemarch,  308. 
MiDDLETON,  Thomas,  77. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  50. 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  377. 
Mill  on  the  Floss,  The,  303,  307,  310. 
Milton,  John,  6,  44,  85,  87,  98- 

113. 
Miracle  Plays,  62. 
Modern  Painters,  323. 
Modest  Proposal,  A,  147. 
Moliftre,  119. 
Moore,  Thomas,  373. 
Moralities,  65. 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  367. 
Morris,  William,  17,  377. 
Morte  d' Arthur,  38-39. 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  218. 

Newcomes,  The,  313. 
Newman,  John  Henry,  Cardinal. 
87,  377. 


INDEX 


395 


Nicholas  Nickleby,  297,  300,  304. 
Noah's  Flood,  64. 
Notes,  Alfred,  384. 

OccLEVE,  Thomas,  33. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  301. 

Old  Mortality,  279,  280. 

Oliver  Twist,  297,  300,  304. 

On  a  Piece  of  Chalk,  321. 

On  Coral  and  Coral  Reefs,  321. 

Opium    Eater,    Confessions    of   an, 

266,  268,  271. 
Origin  of  Species,  318. 
Orm,  or  Ormin,  20. 
Othello,  79. 

Otterburn,  Battle  of  (ballad),  35. 
Otwat,  Thomas,  370. 

Palace  of  Pleasure,  47. 

Palladia  Tamia,  75. 

Pamela,  215. 

Paracelsus,  348. 

Paradise  Lost,  6,  44, 108  ff.,  133,  344. 

Paradise  Regained,    108,    112. 

Paraphrase  (Caedmon's),  6. 

Parlement  of  Foules,  27. 

Pater,  Walter,  378. 

Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  47. 

Peele,  George,  69. 

Pendennis,  313. 

Pepys,  Samuel,  120-123. 

Perceval,  18. 

Percy,  Thomas,  373. 

Petrarch,  42. 

Philaster,  82. 

Phillips,  Stephen,  385. 

Pickwick  Papers,  299,  312. 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,  349. 

Piers  Plowman,  The  Vision  of,  21, 
22,  26. 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  The,  131-132, 
323. 

PiNERO,  Sir  Arthur  W.,  385. 

Pippa  Passes,  346,  349. 

Play  of  St.  Katharine,  62. 

Play  of  the  Shepherds,  64. 

Plutarch's  Lives  (North's  transla- 
tion), 47. 

Poets'  Corner,  32,  287. 


Poor  Relaiions,  264. 

Pope,  Alexander,  164-172. 

Poyser,  Mrs..  310-311. 

Praeterita,  326. 

Preface  (Wordsworth's),  228. 

Prelude,  The,  225,  229. 

Pride  and  Prejudice,  282. 

Prometheus  Unbound,  252-253. 

Puritans,  86  flF. 

Quarterly  Review,  257. 

Radcliffe,  Mrs.  Anne,  218. 
Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  54,  56,  368. 
Ralph  Roister  Doister,  46,  66,  67. 
Ramsay,  Allan,  371. 
Rape  of  the  Lock,  The,  166. 
Rasselas,  182,  218. 
Reade,  Charles,  297,  378. 
Recuyell     (Caxton's) ,     frontispiece, 

38. 
Religio  Laid,  128. 
Religio  Medici,  115. 
Renaissance,  39  ff. 
Requiem  (Stevenson),  359. 
Revenge,  The,  34,  341. 
Richard  II,  78. 
Richard  III,  78. 
Richardson,  Samuel,  214-215. 
Ring  and  the  Book,  The,  351. 
RocLst  Pig,  A  Dissertation  upon,  264. 
Robin  Hood  Ballads,  35. 
Robinson  Crusoe,  136,  151,  154—165, 

213,  323. 
Roderick  Random,  217. 
Romanticism,  219  ff. 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  78,  280,  297. 
Romola,  308. 
RossETTi,    Christina    Georgina, 

378. 
RossETTi,  Dante  Gabriel,  378. 
RusKiN,  John,  322-328. 
Rymer,  Thomas  (ballad),  35. 

Sairey  Gamp,  303. 

Samson  Agonistes,  108,  112. 

Sartor  Resartus,  292. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  272-281,  283. 

Seasons,  The,  173. 


396 


INDEX 


Sejanus,  83. 

Sense  and  Sensibility,  282. 

Sentimental  Journey,  218. 

Sesame  and  Lilies,  325,  327. 

Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,   324, 

327. 
Shakspere,  William,  1,  44,  47,  72- 

81,  88,  119. 
Shakspere,  Tales  from,  263. 
Sharp,  Becky,  303,  315. 
Shaw,  George  Bernard,  385. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  57,  250- 

255. 
Shepherd's  Calender,  The,  46,  47,  54. 
Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley,  371. 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  191. 
Shoemakers'  Holiday,  The,  82. 
Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  152. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  51-53,  213. 
Silas  Marner,  309. 
Sinclair,  May,  385. 
Silent  Woman,  The,  84. 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  215. 
jSiV  Patrick  Spens,  35. 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  124,  136,  163. 
Sky-lark,  To  a,  253. 
Smollett,  Tobias  George,  217. 
'"Society  Verse,"  91. 
Sohrab  and  Rustum,  330,  332. 
Sonnets,  Milton's,  107. 
Sonnets,  Sidney's,  53. 
Sonnets,  Spenser's,  55. 
Sonnets,  Wordsworth's,  233. 
Sonnets,  Wyatt's  and  Surrey's,  42- 

43. 
Sordello,  348. 

SouTHEY,  Robert,  237,  374. 
Spanish  Tragedy,  The,  70. 
Spectator,  The,  124,  156,  163-104. 
Spencer,  Herbert,  386. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  41,  44,  53-57, 

85. 
Spenserian  Stanza,  56-57. 
St.  Cecilia,  Life  of,  26. 
Steele,  Sir  Richard,  155  ff. 
Stephen,  Sir  Leslie,  386. 
Sterne,  Laurence,  218. 
Stevenson,    Robert   Louis,    297, 

318,  353-364. 


St.  Katharine,  Play  of,  62. 
Stones  of  Venice,  324. 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  88,  90,  93. 
Surrey,    Henry    Howard,    Earl 

OF,  41,  42,  43^4. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  140-150. 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 

17,  386. 

Tale  of  a  Tub,  The,  142. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  A,  297. 

Tales  from  Shakspere,  263. 

Tamburlaine,  70. 

Tarn  O'Shanter,  210. 

Task,  The,  203. 

Taller,  The,  156,  163. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  369. 

Tempest,  The,  79,  80. 

Temple,  Sir  William,  141. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,    Lord,   7,  17, 

34,  44,  57,  336-344. 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 

1,  140,  285,  296,  311-316. 
Thomson,  James,  172-176,  218. 
Thyrsis,  332. 
Tintern   Abbey,    Lines   Composed  a 

Few  Miles  above,  221 . 
Tom  Jones,  216-217. 
Tottel's  Miscellany,  42. 
Traveller,  The,  190. 
Treasure  Island,  356. 
Tristram  Shandy,  218. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  82. 
Troilus  and  Criseyde,  27. 
TroUope,  Anthony,  296,  379. 
Turner,  J.  M,  W.,  323. 
Twelfth  Night,  65,  79. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  78. 
Tyndale,  William,  44-45,  85. 

Urn  Burial,  115. 

Vanity  Fair,  303,  313,  316. 

Vanity    of    Human     Wishes,     176, 

182. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  74. 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  The,  188,  189- 

190,  218. 
Volpone,  84. 


INDEX 


397 


Wace,  17. 

Waller,  Edmund,  369. 
Walpole,  Horace,  218. 
Walton,  Izaak,  370. 
Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  386. 
Wars  of  the  Roses,  33. 
Watson,  William,  211,  387. 
Waverley,  275. 
Webster,  John,  77,  82. 
Wells,  H.  G.,  387. 
West  Wind,  Ode  to  the,  253. 
WicLiF,  John,  20-21,  41. 
Widsith,  2. 


WiU  o'  the  Mill,  362. 

Wilson,        John       ("  Christopher 

North"),  374. 
Winter's  Tale,  A,  79. 
Wordsworth,  Dorothy,  229. 
Wordsworth,  William,  107,  113, 

223-236. 
wulfstan,  13. 
Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  41-42. 
Wycherlet,  Willi.*^m,  370. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  387. 
Young,  Edward,  372. 


READINGS 


IN 


ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


CHOSEX    AXD    EDITED    BY 

ROY   BENNETT   PACE 

LATK    ASSlSTAirr    PROFBSSOR    OF    KSGUSH 
8WABTUXOR£    COLLEGE 


ALLYN    AND    BACON 

Bostxjn  Xfto  33ork  Cl)icago 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,   BY 
ROY  BENNETT  PACE 


Nortooolj  i^reaa 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

These  readings  are  intended  as  the  basis  for  a  course  in  the 
historical  development  of  English  literature.  They  include 
representative  works  of  the  best  writers,  although  the  amount 
of  space  given  to  an  author  is  not  necessarily  governed  by 
his  merit.  Some  authors  —  Shakspere,  for  example  —  can  be 
studied  to  advantage  only  in  complete  works  too  long  to  be 
included  in  a  volume  like  this.  Then,  too,  a  writer  who  rep- 
resents a  period  or  a  movement  may  be  relatively  more  impor- 
tant than  another  whose  absolute  importance  is  greater. 

Although  this  volume  is  designed  to  accompany  the  editor's 
English  Literature,  the  selections  cover  the  field  usually  treated 
in  an  historical  survey,  and  the  book  may  be  used  to  advan- 
tage with  any  history  of  English  literature.  Included,  more- 
over, are  enough  sonnets,  odes,  narrative  poems,  essays,  and 
bits  of  prose  fiction  for  an  introductory  study  of  the  types  of 
literature. 

A  feature  of  this  collection  is  the  opportunity  afforded  to 
connect  great  pieces  of  criticism  with  the  works  criticised. 
Lycidas,  for  example,  acquires  a  new  interest  in  the  light  of 
Kuskin's  interpretation ;  Carlyle's  discussion  of  Burns,  and 
Carlyle's  and  Macaulay's  discussions  of  Boswell  suggest  new 
approaches  to  all  these  writers ;  and  even  Shakspere  gains 
from  a  reading  of  Ben  Jonson's  memorial  poem  and  Arnold's 
sonnet. 

The  editor  wishes  to  thank  the  many  teachers  who  have 
offered  helpful  suggestions,  but  to  absolve  them  from  respon- 
sibility for  the  final  make-up  of  the  book. 

ROY   BENNETT   PACE. 

SWAETHMORE,    PeXS8YLVAXIA, 

October  19,  1917. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


From  the  Beginnings  to  the  Norman  Conquest  ( 1066) 

Beowulf Wealhtheow's  Address  to  Beowulf  1 

The  I'ight  with  Grendel's  Mother   .  2 

Caedmon In  the  Beginning 4 

Cynewulf Invocation 4 

The  Choice  of  Mortals 5 

Beda Preface  to  Ecclesiastical  History    .  5 

Coming  of  the  Angles  and  Saxons  .  6 

Alfred  the  Great     .     .     .     Preface  to  Gregory's  Pastoral  Care  9 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle   .     Extracts 11 

From  the  Conquest  to  the  Death  of  Chaucer  (1066-1400) 

Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green 

Knight The  Arming  of  Gawain 

Gawain  Keeps  HLs  Pledge 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth 
John  Wiclif  .... 


WUliam  Langland 
Sir  John  Mandeville 
Geoffrey  Chaucer    . 


12 
13 

Arthur's  Bravery 16 

17 
18 
20 


The  Beatitudes 

Vision  of  the  Field  Full  of  Folk      , 

The  Land  of  Prester  John      .     .     . 

Plan  of  the  Canterbury  Tales ;  and 
Six  Portraits  (from  the  Pro- 
logue)   

The  Pardoner's  Tale 

Chaucer's  Words  to  Adam,  His 
Scribe 

From  the  Death  of  Chaucer  to  the  Accession  of  Elizabeth  (1400- 
1558) 


English  and  Scottish 
Popular  Ballads 


Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Bonnie  George  Campbell  .... 

Lord  Randal 

Kemp  Owyne       

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial  . 
Preface  to  Translation  of  the  ^neid 
How  Arthur  was  Chosen  King  .  . 
How  the  Lover  Perisheth  .... 


William  Caxton      .     . 
Sir  Thomas  Malory     . 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 
Henry   Howard,  EdTl   of 

Surrey Description  of  Sprin, 

The  Death  of  Priam 
William  Tyndale    .     .     .    The  Beatitudes     . 


22 
40 


52 


52 
54 
55 
55 
57 
60 
62 
65 

65 
66 
G8 


VI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Sir  Philip  Sidney   . 
Edmund  Spenser     . 

Francis  Bacon  .     . 

Christopher  Marlowe 
William  Shakspere 


From  the  Accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  Closing  of  the  Theaters 
(1558-1642) 

John  Lyly Queen  Elizabeth  (from  Euphues)    .  68 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 71 

Two  Sonnets 71 

Description  of  Arcadia      ....  72 

Una  and  tlie  Lion 74 

Two  Sonnets 76 

Protlialamion  (conclusion)     ...  77 

Of  Adversity 79 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life  ...  80 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self        .     .  82 

Of  Youth  and  Age 83 

Of  Studies 85 

A  Boast  of  Tamburlaine    ....  87 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love  88 
Songs  from  the  Plays  : 

Who  is  Silvia  ?       88 

Over  hill,  over  dale     ....  89 

Under  the  greenwood  tree   .     .  89 

O  Mistress  mine 90 

Hark,  hark  !  the  lark      ...  90 

Where  the  bee  sucks  ....  90 

Two  Sonnets -  91 

Ben  Jonson To  Celia 92 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakspere      .     .  92 

From  the  Closing  of  the  Theaters  to  the  Restoration  (1642-1660) 

Robert  Herrick  ....     Corinna's  Going  a^Maying     ...  94 

How  Roses  Came  Red 96 

Cheriy-Ripe 97 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of 

Time 97 

To  Phillis 98 

In  Praise  of  His  Mistress   ....  99 

Disdain  Returned 100 

Song 100 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars  101 

To  Althea,  from  Prison     ....  101 

The  Constant  Lover 102 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan  ?    ....  103 

John  Milton '   L' Allegro    .....'....  103 

U  Penseroso 108 

Lycidas 112 


Thomas  Carew 


Richard  Lovelace 


Sir  John  Suckling 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


vu 


Sir  Thomas  Browne 


PASB 

On  His  Blindness 118 

Truth  and  Conformity 118 

Heaven  and  Hell 121 

Charity ~ .     .  122 


From  the  Restoration  to  the  Death  of  Dryden  (1660-1700) 
tiamxiel  Pepys    .     .     . 


John  Dryden 


John  Bunyan 


Shakspere's  The  Tempest      .     .     .  124 

The  Great  Fire  of  London     ...  126 

Farewell 129 

Preface  to  Dryden  and  Davenant's 

The  Tempest 129 

Mac  Flecknoe  (extracts)  ....  132 

Under  Milton's  Picture      ....  134 

The  Trial  of  Christian  and  Faithful  134 


From  the  Death  of  Dryden  to  the  Publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
(1700-1798) 

Jonathan  Swift ....     The  Spider  and  the  Bee     ....  138 
Argument  against  Abolishing  Chris- 
tianity (abridged) 144 

Daniel  Defoe      ....     The  Education  of  Women      .     .     .  150 

Preface  to  Robinson  Crusoe  .     .     .  153 

Crusoe's  Situation  in  Life       ...  154 
Crusoe's   Landing   on    the    Desert 

Island 155 

How  Crusoe  Baked  Bread      .     .     .  158 

Friday 158 

Richard  Steele   ....     Prospectus  of  the  Tatler    .     .     .     .  160 

Mr.  Bickerstaff  Visits  a  Friend  .     .  162 

The  Editor's  Troubles 167 

Joseph  Addison .....     Marlborough 171 

Hymn  (The  Spacious  Firmament)  172 

Frozen  Words 173 

Mr.  Spectator 177 

The  Vision  of  Mirzah 181 

Alexander  Pope      .     .     .     Memorable  Couplets  from  His  Poems  187 

James  Thomson      .     .     .     Winter ;  Spring  (extracts)     .     .     .  188 

Samuel  Johnson     .     .     .     Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield    .  191 

Letter  to  James  Macpherson       .     .  193 

Dissertation  on  the  Art  of  Flying   .  193 

James  Boswell    ....     First  Meeting  with  Johnson  .     .     .  197 


Vlll 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Oliver  Goldsmith 

Edmund  Burke  . 
William  Collins 
Thomas  Gray  . 
William  Coioper 
Robert  Burns 


PAGH 

Oliver  Goldsmith 199 

Johnson's  Manner  of  Talking     .     .  202 
From  The  Deserted  Village : 

The  Village  Preacher      ...  202 

The  Schoolmaster 205 

Edmund  Burke 206 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  206 

The  Proper  Attitude  toward  America  207 

Tribute  to  the  Memoiy  of  his  Son  .  210 

Ode:  How  Sleep  the  Brave    .     .     .  211 

Ode  to  Evening 212 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Countiy  Church- 
yard       214 

On  Human  Slaveiy       218 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin 219 

To  a  Mouse 220 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 221 

Tam  0'  Shanter 223 

Auld  Lang  Syne 229 

Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut   .     .  230 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton     .     .     .  231 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That    .     .     .  232 

The  Banks  o'  Doon 233 


From  the  Publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  to  the  Death  of  Ruskin 
(1798-1900) 

William  Wordsworth  .     .     His  Object  in  His  Poetiy   ....  233 

Passages  on  Poetry  in  (ieneral    .     .  236 

Expostulation  and  Reply  ....  237 

The  Tables  Turned 238 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight  .     .  239 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud  .     .  240 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior     .  240 

Influence  of  a  Mountain-peak     .     .  243 

Composed  Upon  Westmin.ster  Bridge  244 

London,  1802  (Milton)       ....  245 

Nuns  Fret  Not 245 

The  World  is  too  Much  with  Us      .  246 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet 246 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge     Chaucer 247 

Othello 247 

An  Observation  on  Patriotism    .     .  248 

On  Style 248 

Kubla  Khan 249 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


IX 


George  Noel  Gordon, 
Lord  Byron 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


John  Keats 


Charles  Lamb    .    . 
Thomas  de  Quincey 

Sir  Walter  Scott     . 

Jane  Austen  .     .     . 


Thomas  Babington 
Macaulay    .     . 


Thomas  Carlyle 


Lachin  y  Gair 251 

Wordsworth 252 

The  Bull-Fight 253 

Waterloo 255 

To  Thomas  Moore 257 

Stanzas  (  When  a  man  hath  no  free- 
dom)      258 

Epigram  (The  world  is  a  bundle  of 

hay) 258 

On  My  Thirty-third  Birthday      .     .  258 

Stanzas  from  Don  Juan    ....  259 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind      ....  259 

The  Cloud 262 

To  a  Skylark 264 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 

Homer 268 

On  the  Gra.sshopper  and  the  Cricket  268 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  .     .     .     .     .  269 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 270 

A  Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig  .     .  282 

Dream-Children 290 

A  Meeting  with  Lamb 295 

Apostrophe  to  Opium 298 

Incident  of  the  Malay 299 

From  Pleasure  to  Pain       ....  302 

A  Digression  on  Reading  Aloud      .  302 
The  First  Meeting  of  Edgar  and  Lucy 

(from  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor)  303 

Soldier,  Rest ! 310 

Here's  a  Health  to  King  Charles  !   .  311 
The  Escape  of  Marmion    ....  312 
Elizabeth  has  a  Distinguished  Vis- 
itor (from  Pride  and  Prejudice)  315 

James  Boswell 323 

Scene    at    the    Trial    of    Warren 

Hastings 325 

London  Coffee-Houses 327 

The  Battle  of  Ivry 330 

James  Boswell 333 

Robert    Burns    (from   Heroes   and 

Hero-Worship)       ...  .338 

A  Definition  of  History     ....  341 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Charles  Dickens 


George  Eliot 


William  Makepeace 
Thackeray  .     . 


Thomas  Henry  Huxley 

John  Ruskin      .     .     . 
Matthew  Arnold      .     . 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


Robert  Browning 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


PAOK 

Preface  to  Oliver  Twist     ....  343 
Mr.  Micawber  (from  David  Copper- 
field)    346 

Uriah  Heep  (from  the  same)      .     .  351 
Maggie  Behaves  Worse  tlian  She  Ex- 
pected (from   The  Mill  on  the 

Floss) 356 

Mrs.    Crawley,    the    Colonel,    and 

Little  Rawdy  (from  Vanity  Fair)  363 

Washington  Irving 368 

The  Method  of  Scientific  Investiga^ 

tion 372 

On  Some  Lines  of  Lycidas     .     .     .  382 

A  Definition  of  Culture      ....  388 

Estimate  of  Emerson 391 

Shakespeare 395 

Memorial  Verses 395 

Requiescat 397 

The  Fall  of  Sohrab 398 

Dover  Beach 402 

Geist's  Grave 404 

Ulysses  on  Old  Age 406 

In   Memoriam    (I,    XXVII,    CVI, 

CXXX) 407 

Home  They  Brought  Iler  Warrior 

Dead 410 

Geraint's  Strange  Petition  .  .  .  410 
Gareth's  Combat  with  the  Noonday 

Sun 412 

The  Revenge 414 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigatle  .  419 

The  Throstle 421 

Crossing  the  Bar 422 

The  year's  at  the  spring  ....  422 
How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix      ....  423 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp      .     .  425 

My  La.st  Duchess 426 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad    .     .  427 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 428 

Epilogue  to  Asolando 434 

El  Dorado 435 


READINGS   IN   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


READINGS    IN    ENGLISH 
LITERATURE 


THE  OLD  ENGLISH  EPIC 

Wealhtheow's  Address  to  Beowxilf. — The  Warriors  Retire 
(From  Beowulf  1) 

Wealhtheow  spake  amid  warriors,  and  said :  — 
"  This  jewel  enjoy  in  thy  jocund  youth, 
Beowulf  lov'd,  these  battle-weeds  wear, 
a  royal  treasure,  and  richly  thrive ! 

Preserve  thy  strength,  and  these  striplings  here  '       6 

counsel  in  kindness  :  requital  be  mine. 
Hast  done  such  deeds,  that  for  days  to  come 
thou,  art  famed  among  folk  both  far  and  near, 
so  wide  as  washeth  the  wave  of  Ocean 

his  windy  walls.     Through  the  ways  of  life  10 

prosper,  O  prince  !     I  pray  for  thee 
rich  possessions.     To  son  of  mine 
be  helpful  in  deed  and  uphold  his  joys  1 
Here  every  earl  to  the  other  is  true, 

mild  of  mood,  to  the  master  loyal  I  16 

Thanes  are  friendly,  the  throng  obedient, 
liegemen  are  revelling :  list  and  obey ! 

Went  then  to  her  place.  —  That  was  proudest  of  feasts ; 
flowed  wine  for  the  warriors.     Wyrd  they  knew  not, 
destiny  dire,  and  the  doom  to  be  seen  20 

by  many  an  earl  when  eve  should  come, 
and  Hrothgar  homeward  hasten  away, 

>  From  the  translation  by  Professor  F.  B.  Gummere.  Used  by  special 
permission  of  the  translator  and  of  the  publishers.  Copyright,  1904,  The 
Macmillan  Company. 

1 


2  ENGLISH  LITEIIATURE 

royal,  to  rest.    The  room  was  guarded 

by  an  army  of  earls,  as  erst  was  done. 
25         They  bared  the  bench-boards ;  abroad  they  spread 

beds  and  bolsters.  —  One  beer-carouser 

in  danger  of  doom  lay  down  in  the  hall.  — 

At  their  heads  they  set  their  shields  of  war, 

bucklers  bright ;  on  the  bench  were  there 
30         over  each  a'theling,  easy  to  see, 

the  high  battle-helmet,  the  haughty  spear, 

the  corselet  of  rings.     'Twas  their  custom  so 

ever  to  be  for  battle  prepared, 

at  home,  or  harrying,  which  it  were, 
35         even  as  oft  as  evil  threatened 

their  sovran  king.  —  They  were  clansmen  good. 

The  Fight  with  Grendel's  Mother 
{From  Beowulf) 

After  these  words  the  Weder-Geat  lord 

boldly  hastened,  biding  never 

answer  at  all :  and  ocean  floods 

closed  o'er  the  hero.     Long  while  of  the  day 
5         fled  ere  he  felt  the  floor  of  the  sea. 

Soon  found  the  fiend  who  the  flood-domain 

sword-hungry  held  these  hundred  winters, 

greedy  and  grim,  that  some  guest  from  above, 

some  man,  was  raiding  her  monster-realm. 
10  She  grasped  out  for  him  with  grisly  claws, 

and  the  warrior  seized ;  yet  scathed  slie  not 

his  body  hale ;  the  breastplate  hindered, 

as  she  strove  to  shatter  the  sark  of  war, 

the  linked  harness,  with  loathsome  hand. 
15         On  the  hall-guest  she  hurled  herself,  hent  her  short  sword, 

broad  and  brown-edged,  the  bairn  to  avenge, 

the  sole-born  son.  —  On  his  shoulder  lay 

braided  breast-mail,  barring  death, 

withstanding  entrance  of  edge  or  blade. ' 


THE  OLD  ENGLISH  EPIC  3 

Life  would  have  ended  for  Ecgtheow's  son,  20 

under  wide  earth  for  that  earl  of  Geats, 

had  his  armor  of  war  not  aided  him, 

battle-net  hard,  and  holy  God 

wielded  the  victory,  wisest  Maker. 

The  Lord  of  Heaven  allowed  his  cause ;  25 

and  easily  rose  the  earl  erect. 

'Mid  the  battle-gear  saw  he  a  blade  triiunphant, 

old-sword  of  Eotens,  with  edge  of  proof, 

warriors'  heirloom  weapon  unmatched, 

—  save  only  'twas  more  than  other  men  30 

to  bandy-of-battle  could  bear  at  all  — 

as  the  giants  had  wrought  it,  ready  and  keen. 

Seized  then  its  chain-hilt  the  Scyldings'  chieftain, 

bold  and  battle-grim,  brandished  the  sword, 

reckless  of  life,  and  so  wrathfully  smote  36 

that  it  gripped  her  neck  and  grasped  her  hard, 

her  bone-rings  breaking :  the  blade  pierced  through 

that  fated-one's  flesh  :  to  floor  she  sank. 

Bloody  the  blade :  he  was  blithe  of  his  deed. 

Then  blazed  forth  light.     'Twas  bright  within  40 

as  when  from  the  sky  there  shines  unclouded 

heaven's  candle.     The  hall  he  scanned. 

By  the  wall  then  went  he ;  his  weapon  raised 

high  by  its  hilts  the  Hygelac-thane, 

angry  and  eager.     That  edge  was  not  useless  46 

to  the  warrior  now.     He  wished  with  speed 

Grendel  to  guerdon  for  grim  raids  many, 

for  the  war  he  waged  on  Western-Danes 

oftener  far  than  an  only  time, 

when  of  Hrothgar's  hearth-companions  60 

he  slew  in  slumber,  in  sleep  devoured, 

fifteen  men  of  the  folk  of  Danes, 

and  as  many  others  outward  bore, 

his  horrible  prey.     Well  paid  for  that 

the  WTathful  prince  !    For  now  prone  he  saw  55 

Grendel  stretched  there,  spent  with  war. 


4  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

spoiled  of  life,  so  scathed  had  left  him 
Heorot's  battle.     The  body  sprang  far 
when  after  death  it  endured  the  blow, 
00  sword-stroke  savage,  that  severed  its  head. 

C^DMON 

In  the  Beginning 

(From  the  Paraphrase) 

Most  right  it  is  that  we  praise  with  our  words. 
Love  in  our  minds,  the  Warden  of  the  Skies, 
Glorious  King  of  all  the  hosts  of  men ; 
He  speeds  the  strong,  and  is  the  Head  of  all 
5  His  high  creation,  the  Almighty  Lord. 

None  formed  Him,  no  first  was  nor  last  shall  be 

Of  the  Eternal  Ruler,  but  His  sway 

Is  everlasting  over  thrones  in  heaven. 

With  powers  on  high,  soothfast  and  steadfast.  He 

10  Ruled  the  wide  home  of  heaven's  bosom  spread 

By  God's  might  for  the  guardians  of  souls. 
The  Son  of  glory.     Hosts  of  angels  shone. 
Glad  with  their  Maker ;  bright  their  bliss  and  rich 
The  fruitage  of  their  lives ;  their  glory  sure, 

15  They  served  and  praised  their  King,  with  joy  gave  praise 

To  Him,  their  Life-Lord,  in  whose  aiding  care 
They  judged  themselves  most  blessed.     Sin  unknown, 
Offence  unformed,  still  with  their  Parent  Lord 
They  lived  in  peace,  raising  aloft  in  heaven 

20  Right  and  truth  only,  ere  the  Angel  Chief 

Through  Pride  divided  them  and  led  astray, 

CYNEWULF 

Invocation 
(From  Christ,  Part  I,  "  The  Nativity  ") 

Hail,  heavenly  beam,  brightest  of  angels  thou. 
Sent  unto  men  upon  this  middle-earth  ! 


BEDA  5 

Thou  art  the  true  refulgence  of  the  sun, 

Radiant  above  the  stars,  and  from  thyself 

lUuminest  for  ever  all  the  tides  of  time.  5 

And  as  thou,  God  indeed  begotten  of  God, 

Thou  Son  of  the  true  Father,  wast  from  aye, 

Without  beginning,  in  the  heaven's  glory. 

So  now  thy  handiwork  in  its  sore  need 

Prayeth  thee  boldly  that  thou  send  to  us  10 

The  radiant  sun,  and  that  thou  come  thyself 

To  enlighten  those  who  for  so  long  a  time 

Were  wTapt  around  with  darkness,  and  here  in  gloom 

Have  sat  the  livelong  night,  shrouded  in  sin ; 

Death's  dark  shadow  had  they  to  endure.  15 

The  Choice  of  Mortals 
(From  the  same,  Part  II,  "  The  Ascension  ") 

Lo  !  we  have  heard  now  how  the  Saviour-Child 
Dispensed  salvation  by  His  advent  hither. 
How  He,  the  Lord's  great  Son,  freed  and  protected 
Folk  'neath  the  clouds,  so  that  each  mortal  now. 
While  he  is  dwelling  here  alive,  must  choose,  —  5 

Be  it  hell's  base  shame,  or  heaven's  fair  fame. 
Be  it  the  shining  light,  or  the  loathsome  night, 
Be  it  majestic  state,  or  the  rash  ones'  hate. 
Be  it  song  with  the  Lord,  or  with  devils  discord. 
Be  it  pain  with  the  grim,  or  bliss  with  cherubim,  10 

Be  it  life  or  death,  as  it  shall  liefer  be 
For  him  to  act  while  flesh  and  spirit  dwell 
Within  the  world.     Wherefore  let  glory  be. 
Thanks  endless,  to  the  noble  Trinity. 

BEDA 

Preface  to  the  Ecclesiastical  History 

I,  Beda,  servant  of  Christ  and  priest,  send  greeting  to  the 
well-beloved  king  Ceolwulf.  And  I  send  you  the  history, 
which  I  lately  wrote  about  the  Angles  and  Saxons,  for  your- 


6  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

self  to  read  and  examine  at  leisure,  and  also  to  copy  out  and 
5 impart  to  others  more  at  large;  and  I  have  confidence  in 
your  zeal,  because  you  are  very  diligent  and  inquisitive  as 
to  the  sayings  and  doings  of  men  of  old,  and  above  all  of  the 
famous  men  among  our  people.  For  this  book  either  speaks 
good  of  the  good,  and  the  hearer  imitates  that,  or  it  speaks 

10  evil  of  the  evil,  and  the  hearer  flees  and  shuns  the  evil.  For 
it  is  good  to  praise  the  good  and  blame  the  bad,  that  the 
hearer  may  profit.  If  your  hearer  be  reluctant,  how  else 
will  he  gain  instruction?  I  have  written  this  for  your 
profit  and  for  your  people;    as  God  chose  you  out  to  be 

15  king,  it  behoves  you  to  instruct  your  people.  And  that 
there  may  be  the  less  doubt  whether  this  be  true,  I  will 
state  the  sources  of  my  narrative 

Coming  of  the  Angles,  Saxons,  and  Jutes 
(From  the  Ecclesiastical  History,  Book  I,  Chap.  XV) 

It  was  449  years  after  our  Lord's  incarnation,  when  the 
emperor  Martianus  succeeded  to  the  throne,  which  he  oc- 
cupied for  seven  years.  He  was  the  forty-sixth  from  the 
emperor  Augustus.     At  that  time  the  Angles  and  Saxons 

5  were  called  in  by  the  aforesaid  king,  and  arrived  in  Britain 
with  three  great  ships.  They  received  settlements  on  the 
east  side  of  the  island  by  order  of  the  same  king,  who  had 
invited  them  here,  to  fight  as  for  their  country.  They  at 
once  took  the  field  against  the  foe,  who  had  often  before 

10 overrun  the  land  from  the  north;  and  the  Saxons  won  the 
victory.  Then  they  sent  home  messengers,  whom  they 
bade  to  report  the  fertility  of  this  land,  and  the  cowardice 
of  the  Britons.  Immediately  a  larger  fleet  was  dispatched 
here,  with  a  stronger  force  of  warriors ;    and  the  host  when 

15  united  overpowered  resistance.  The  Britons  gave  and  as- 
signed to  them  settlements  among  themselves,  on  condition 
of  fighting  for  the  peace  and  safety  of  their  country  and 


BEDA  7 

resisting  their  enemies,  while  the  Britons  also  provided 
them  with  a  maintenance  and  estates  in  return  for  their 
labours.  20 

The  new-comers  were  of  the  three  strongest  races  of 
Germany,  namely,  Saxons,  Angles,  and  Jutes.  Of  Jutish 
origin  are  the  men  of  Kent,  and  the  Wihtssetan ;  that  is  the 
tribe  dwelling  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  From  the  Saxons,  that 
is  from  the  people  called  Old  Saxons,  came  the  East  Saxons,  25 
the  South  Saxons,  and  the  West  Saxons;  and  from  the 
Angles  came  the  East  Angles  and  the  Middle  Angles,  Mer- 
cians, and  the  whole  race  of  the  Northumbrians.  This  is 
the  land  which  is  named  Angulus,  between  the  Jutes  and 
Saxons,  and  it  is  said  to  have  lain  waste,  from  the  time  they  30 
left  it,  up  to  this  day.  Their  leaders  and  their  commanders 
were  at  first  two  brothers,  Hengist  and  Horsa,  sons  of  Wiht- 
gils,  whose  father  was  called  Witta,  whose  father  was  Wihta, 
and  the  father  of  Wihta  was  called  Woden.  From  his  race 
the  royal  families  of  many  tribes  derived  their  origin.  Then  35 
without  delay  they  came  in  crowds,  larger  hosts  from  the 
tribes  previously  mentioned.  And  the  people,  who  came 
here,  began  to  increase  and  multiply  to  such  an  extent,  that 
they  were  a  great  terror  to  the  inhabitants  themselves,  who 
originally  invited  and  called  them  in.  Later  on,  when  occa-  40 
sion  offered,  they  entered  into  alliance  with  the  Picts,  whom 
they  had  previously  driven  out  by  arms.  And  the  Saxons 
sought  excuse  and  opportunity  for  breaking  with  the  Britons. 

So  they  publicly  announced  to  the  Britons  and  declared, 
that,  unless  they  gave  them  a  more  liberal  maintenance,  45 
they  would  take  it  for  themselves  by  force  and  by  plundering, 
wherever  they  could  find  it.  And  they  soon  carried  their 
threats  into  execution  :  they  burned  and  plundered  and  slew 
from  the  sea  on  the  west  to  the  sea  on  the  east ;  and  now  no 
one  withstood  them.  Their  vengeance  was  not  unlike  that  50 
of  the  Chaldees,  when  they  burned  the  walls  of  Jerusalem 


8  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  destroyed  the  royal  palace  by  fire  for  the  sins  of  God's 
people.  So  then  here  almost  every  city  and  district  was 
wasted  by  this  impious  people,  though  it  was  by  the  just 

65  judgment  of  God.  Buildings  both  public  and  private  col- 
lapsed and  fell ;  by  every  altar  priests  and  clergy  were  slain 
and  murdered.  Bishops  and  people,  without  regard  for 
mercy,  were  destroyed  together  by  fire  and  sword ;  nor  was 
there  anyone  who  bestowed  the  rites  of  burial  on  those  so 

60  cruelly  slaughtered.  Many  of  the  miserable  survivors  were 
captured  in  waste  places,  and  stabbed  in  heaps. 

Some  through  hunger  surrendered  themselves  into  the  ene- 
my's hands,  and  engaged  to  be  their  slaves  for  ever  in  return 
for  a  maintenance ;  some  in  sorrow  went  beyond  the  sea ;  some 

65  timidly  abode  in  the  old  country,  and  with  heavy  hearts 
ever  lived  a  life  of  want  in  wood  and  wilds  and  on  lofty  rocks. 
Then  when  the  host  returned  to  their  home  after  expelling 
the  inhabitants  of  the  island,  the  latter  began  little  by  little 
to  rouse  up  their  strength  and  courage :    issuing  from  the 

70  obscure  retreats  in  which  they  had  hidden  themselves,  they 
began  all  with  one  consent  to  entreat  heaven's  aid,  that 
they  might  not  utterly  and  everywhere  be  annihilated.  At 
that  time  their  general  and  leader  was  Ambrosius,  also  called 
Aurelianus :  he  was  of  Roman  origin,  and  a  man  of  courage 

75  and  moderation.  In  his  time  the  Britons  recovered  heart 
and  strength,  and  he  exhorted  them  to  fight  and  promised 
victory;  and  by  God's  help  in  the  fight  they  did  win  the 
victory.  And  then  from  that  time  now  the  Britons,  now 
again  the  Saxons  were  victors,  till  the  year  in  which  Mount 

SoBadon  was  beset;  there  was  made  a  great  carnage  of  the 
Angles,  about  forty-four  years  after  the  arrival  of  the  Angles 
in  Britain, 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT  9 

ALFRED   THE   GREAT 
Preface  to  Pope  Gregory's  Pastoral  Care 

King  Alfred  bids  greet  bishop  Waerferth  lovingly  and 
with  friendship;  and  I  let  it  be  known  to  thee  that  it  has 
very  often  come  into  my  mind,  what  wise  men  there  were 
formerly  throughout  England;  both  of  sacred  and  secular 
orders ;  and  how  happy  times  there  were  then  throughout  5 
England ;  and  how  the  kings  who  had  power  over  the  nation 
in  those  days  obeyed  God  and  his  ministers ;  and  they  pre- 
served peace,  morality,  and  order  at  home,  and  at  the  same 
time  enlarged  their  territory  abroad;  and  how  they  pros- 
pered both  with  war  and  with  wisdom ;  and  also  the  sacred  10 
orders  how  zealous  they  were  both  in  teaching  and  in  learn- 
ing ;  and  in  all  the  services  they  owed  to  God ;  and  how  for- 
eigners came  to  this  land  in  search  of  wisdom  and  instruc- 
tion, and  how  we  should  now  have  to  get  them  from  abroad 
if  we  were  to  have  them.  So  general  was  its  decay  in  Eng- 15 
land  that  there  were  very  few  on  this  side  of  the  Humber 
who  could  understand  their  rituals  in  English,  or  translate 
a  letter  from  Latin  into  English;  and  I  believe  that  there 
were  not  many  beyond  the  Humber.  There  were  so  few  of 
them  that  I  cannot  remember  a  single  one  south  of  the  Thames  20 
when  I  came  to  the  throne. 

Thanks  be  to  God  Almighty  that  we  have  any  teachers 
among  us  now.  And  therefore  I  command  thee  to  do  as 
I  believe  thou  art  willing,  to  disengage  thyself  from  worldly 
matters  as  often  as  thou  canst,  that  thou  mayest  apply  the  25 
wisdom  which  God  has  given  thee  wherever  thou  canst. 
Consider  what  punishments  would  come  upon  us  on  account 
of  this  world,  if  we  neither  loved  it  (wisdom)  ourselves  nor 
suffered  other  men  to  obtain  it :  we  should  love  the  name 
only  of  Christian,  and  very  few  of  the  virtues.  When  1 30 
considered  all  this  I  remembered  also  how  I  saw,  before  it 


10  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

had  been  all  ravaged  and  burnt,  how  the  churches  throughout 
the  whole  of  England  stood  filled  with  treasures  and  books, 
and  there  was  also  a  multitude  of  God's  servants,  but  they 

35  had  very  little  knowledge  of  the  books,  for  they  could  not 
understand  anything  of  them,  because  they  were  not  written 
in  their  own  language.  As  if  they  had  said :  "  Our  fore- 
fathers, who  formerly  held  these  places,  loved  wisdom,  and 
through  it  they  obtained  wealth  and  bequeathed   it  to  us. 

40  In  this  we  can  still  see  their  tracks,  but  we  cannot  follow 
them,  because  we  would  not  incline  our  hearts  after  their 
example." 

When  I  remembered  all  this,  I  wondered  extremely  that 
the  good  and  wise  men  who  were  formerly  all  over  England, 

45  and  haa  perfectly  learnt  all  the  books,  did  not  wish  to  trans- 
late them  into  their  own  language.  But  again  I  soon  an- 
swered myself  and  said :  "  They  did  not  think  that  men 
would  ever  be  so  careless,  and  that  learning  would  so  decay ; 
through  that  desire  they  abstained  from  it,  and  they  wished 

50  that  the  wisdom  in  this  land  might  increase  with  our  knowl- 
edge of  languages."  Then  I  remembered  how  the  law  was 
first  known  in  Hebrew,  and  again,  when  the  Greeks  had 
learnt  it,  they  translated  the  whole  of  it  into  their  own  lan- 
guage, and  all  other  books  besides.     And  again  the  Romans, 

55  when  they  had  learnt  it,  they  translated  the  whole  of  it 
through  learned  interpreters  into  their  own  language.  And 
also  all  other  Christian  nations  translated  a  part  of  them  into 
their  own  language.  Therefore  it  seems  better  to  me,  if 
ye  think  so,  for  us  also  to  translate  some  books  which  are 

60  most  needful  for  men  to  know  into  the  language  which  we 
can  all  understand,  and  for  you  to  do  as  we  very  easily  can 
if  we  have  tranquillity  enough,  that  is  that  all  the  youth 
now  in  England  of  free  men,  who  are  rich  enough  to  be  able 
to  devote  themselves  to  it,  be  set  to  learn  as  long  as  they  are 

65  not  fit  for  any  other  occupation,  until  that  they  are  well 


THE  ANGLO-SAXON  CHRONICLE  11 

able  to  read  English  writing;  and  let  those  be  afterward 
taught  in  the  Latin  language  who  are  to  continue  learning 
and  be  promoted  to  a  higher  rank. 

When  I  remembered  how  the  knowledge  of  Latin  had 
formerly  decayed  throughout  England,  and  yet  many  could  70 
read  English  writing,  I  began,  among  other  various  and 
manifold  troubles  of  this  kingdom,  to  translate  into  English 
the  book  which  is  called  in  Latin  Pastoralis,  and  in  English 
Shepherd's  Book,  sometimes  word  by  word  and  sometimes 
according  to  the  sense,  as  I  learnt  it  from  Plegmund  my  arch-  75 
bishop,  and  Asser  my  bishop,  and  Grimbold  my  mass-priest, 
and  John  my  mass-priest.     And  when  I  had  learnt  it  as  I 
could  best  understand  it,  and  as  I  could  most  clearly  inter- 
pret it,  I  translated  it  into  English;   and  I  will  send  a  copy 
to  every  bishopric  in  my  kingdom;    and  on  each  there  is  a 80 
clasp  worth  fifty  mancus.     And  I  command  in  God's  name 
that  no  man  take  the  clasp  from  the  book  or  the  book  from 
the  minster:    it  is  uncertain  how   long  there  may  be  such 
learned  bishops  as  now,  thanks  be  to  God,  there  are  nearly 
CAerywhere ;  therefore  I  wish  them  always  to  remain  in  their 85 
place,  unless  the  bishop  wish  to  take  them  with  him,  or  they 
be  lent  out  anywhere,  or  any  one  make  a  copy  from  them. 

THE   ANGLO-SAXON    CHRONICLE   • 

677.  In  this  year  the  star  (called)  comet  appeared  in 
August,  and  shone  for  three  months  every  morning  like  a 
sunbeam.  And  Bishop  Wilfrith  was  driven  from  his  bish- 
opric by  King  Ecgferth;  and  two  bishops  were  hallowed 
in  his  stead :  Bosa  to  Deira,  and  Eata  to  Bernicia.  And  5 
Eadhed  was  hallowed  bishop  by  the  people  of  Lindsey ;  he 
was  the  first  of  the  bishops  of  Lindsey. 

690.    In  this  year  Archbishop  Theodore  died.     He  was 
bishop  twenty-two  winters,  and  he  was  buried  at  Canter- 


12    .  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

10 bury;  and  Beorhtwald  succeeded  to  the  bishopric.  Pre- 
viously the  bishops  had  been  Romans ;  since  then  they  were 
English. 

699.    In  this  year  the  Picts  slew  Beorht  the  alderman. 
722.   In  this  year  Queen  ^Ethelburh  destroyed  Taunton, 

15  which  Ine  had  previously  built.  And  Ealdbriht  the  exile 
withdrew  into  Surrey  and  Sussex;  and  Ine  fought  against 
the  South  Saxons. 

871.  (abridged)  About  four  days  afterward,  King  Ethel- 
red  and  his  brother  Alfred  led  a  large  force  to  Reading,  and 

20  fought  against  the  army ;   and  there  was  great  slaughter  on  ■ 
both  sides.     Earl  Ethelwulf  was  slain,  and  the  Danes  held 
possession  of  the  field.     And  about  four  days  after  this, 
Ethelred  and  Alfred  fought  against  the  whole  army  at  Ash- 
down.     And  the  Danes  were  in  two  divisions :    in  one  were 

25  Bagsecg  and  Half  dene  the  heathen  kings ;  and  in  the  other 
were  the  earls.  King  Ethelred  fought  against  the  division 
of  the  kings,  and  there  was  King  Bagsecg  slain;  and  his 
brother  Alfred  against  the  division  of  the  earls.  And  both 
divisions  were  put  to  flight,  and  many  thousands  slain.     And 

30  afterward,  about  Easter,  King  Ethelred  died ;  and  he  reigned 
five  years,  and  his  body  lies  at  Wimborne.  Then  Alfred, 
son  of  Ethelwulf,  succeeded  to  the  kingdom  of  the  West 
Saxons.  And  about  a  month  after.  King  Alfred,  with  a 
small  force,  fought  against  the  whole  army  at  Wilton,  and 

35  put  them  to  flight. 

MIDDLE  ENGLISH  ROMANCE 

The  Arming  of  Gawain 
(From  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight) 

He  dwelt  there  all  that  day,  and  on  the  mom  he  arose 
and  asked  betimes  for  his  armor;  and  they  brought  it  unto 
him  on  this  wise.     First,  a  rich  carpet  was  stretched  on  the 


MIDDLE  ENGLISH  ROMANCE  13 

floor  (and  brightly  did  the  gold  gear  glitter  upon  it),  then 
the  knight  stepped  upon  it,  and  handled  the  steel;   clad  he 5 
was  in  a  doublet  of  silk,  with  a  close  hood,  lined  fairly  through- 
out.    Then  they  set  the  steel  shoes  upon  his  feet,  and  wrapped 
his  legs  with  greaves,  with  polished  kneecaps,  fastened  with 
knots  of  gold.     Then  they  cased  his  thighs  in  cuisses  closed 
with  thongs,  and  brought  hira  the  byrnie  of  bright  steel  10 
rings  sewn  upon  a  fair  stuff.     Well  burnished  braces  they 
set  on  each  arm  with  good  elbow-pieces,  and  gloves  of  mail, 
and  all  the  goodly  gear  that  should  shield  him  in  his  need. 
And  they  cast  over  all  a  rich  surcoat,  and  set  the  golden  spurs 
on  his  heels,  and  girt  him  with  a  trusty  sword  fastened  with  15 
a  silken  bawdrick.     When  he  was  thus  clad,  his  harness  was 
costly,  for  the  least  loop  or  latchet  gleamed  with  gold.     So 
armed  as  he  was  he  hearkened  Mass  and  made  his  offering 
at  the  high  altar.     Then  he  came  to  the  king,  and  the  knights 
of  his  court,  and  courteously  took  leave  of  lords  and  ladies,  20 
and  they  kissed  him,  and  commended  him  to  Christ. 

Gawain  Keeps  His  Pledge 
{From  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight) 

"Thou  art  welcome,  Gawain,"  quoth  the  green  warrior, 
"to  my  place.  Thou  hast  timed  thy  coming  as  befits  a 
true  man.  Thou  knowest  the  covenant  set  between  us  :  at 
this  time  twelve  months  agone  thou  didst  take  that  which 
fell  to  thee,  and  I  at  this  New  Year  will  readily  requite  thee.  5 
We  are  in  this  valley,  verily  alone,  here  are  no  knights  to 
sever  us,  do  what  we  will.  Have  off  thy  helm  from  thine 
head,  and  have  here  thy  pay;  make  me  no  more  talking 
than  I  did  then  when  thou  didst  strike  off  my  head  with 
one  blow."  10 

"Nay,"  quoth  Gawain,   "by  God  that  gave  me  life,  I 
shall  make  no  moan  whatever  befall  me,  but  make  thou  ready 


14  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

for  the  blow  and  I  shall  stand  still  and  say  never  a  word  to 
thee,  do  as  thou  wilt." 

15     With  that  he  bent  his  head  and  showed  his  neck  all  bare,  and 

made  as  if  he  had  no  fear,  for  he  would  not  be  thought  afraid. 

Then  the  Green  Knight  made  him  ready,  and  grasped  his 

grim  weapon  to  smite  Gawain.     With  all  his  force  he  bore 

it  aloft  with  a  mighty  feint  of  slaying  him :   had  it  fallen  as 

20  straight  as  he  aimed,  he  who  was  ever  doughty  of  deed 
had  been  slain  by  the  blow.  But  Gawain  swerved  aside 
as  the  axe  came  gliding  down  to  slay  him  as  he  stood,  and 
shrank  a  little  with  the  shoulders,  for  the  sharp  iron.  The 
other  heaved  up  the  blade  and  rebuked  the  prince  with  many 

25  proud  words : 

"Thou  art  not  Gawain,"  he  said,  "who  is  held  so  valiant, 
that  never  feared  he  man  by  hill  or  vale,  but  thou  shrinkest 
for  fear  ere  thou  feelest  hurt.  Such  cowardice  did  I  never 
hear  of  Gawain !     Neither  did  /  flinch  from  thy  blow,  nor 

30  make  strife  in  King  Arthur's  hall.  My  head  fell  to  my  feet, 
and  yet  I  fled  not ;  but  thou  didst  wax  faint  of  heart  ere  any 
harm  befell.  Wherefore  must  I  be  deemed  the  braver 
knight." 

Quoth  Gawain,  "I  shrank  once,  but  so  will  I  no  more; 

35  though  if  my  head  fall  on  the  stones  I  cannot  replace  it. 
But  haste.  Sir  Knight,,  by  thy  faith,  and  bring  me  to  the 
point,  deal  me  my  destiny,  and  do  it  out  of  hand ;  for  I  will 
stand  thee  a  stroke  and  move  no  more  till  thine  axe  have 
hit  me  —  my  troth  on  it." 

40  "Have  at  thee,  then,"  quoth  the  other,  and  heaved  aloft 
the  axe  with  fierce  mien,  as  if  he  were  mad.  He  struck  at 
him  fiercely  but  wounded  him  not,  withholding  his  hand 
ere  it  might  strike  him. 

Gawain  abode  the  stroke,  and  flinched  in  no  limb,  but 

45  stood  still  as  a  stone  or  a  stump  of  a  tree  that  is  fast  rooted 
in  the  rocky  ground  with  a  hundred  roots. 


MIDDLE  ENGLISH  ROMANCE  15 

Then  spake  gaily  the  man  in  green,  "So  now  thou  hast 
thine  heart  whole  it  behooves  me  to  smite.  Hold  aside  thy 
hood  that  Arthur  gave  thee,  and  keep  thy  neck  thus  bent 
lest  it  cover  it  again."  50 

Then  Gawain  said  angrily,  "Why  talk  on  thus?     Thou 
dost  threaten  too  long.     I  hope  thy  heart  misgives  thee." 
•    "For  sooth,"  quoth  the  other,  "so  fiercely  thou  speakest 
I  will  no  longer  let  thine  errand  wait  its  reward."     Then  he 
braced  himself  to  strike,  frowning  with  lips  and  brow,  'twas  55 
no  marvel  that  it  pleased  but  ill  him  who  hoped  for  no  rescue. 
He  lifted  the  axe  lightly  and  let  it  fall  with  the  edge  of  the 
blade  on  the  bare  neck.     Though  he  struck  swiftly,  it  hurt 
him  no  more  than  on  the  one  side  where  it  severed  the  skin. 
The  sharp  blade  cut  into  the  flesh  so  that  the  blood  ran  60 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  ground.      And  when   the    knight 
saw  the  blood  staining  the   snow,  he   sprang   forth,  swift- 
foot,  more    than  a  spear's   length,  seized   his   helmet   and 
set  it  on  his  head,  cast  his  shield  over  his  shoulder,  drew 
out  his  bright  sword,  and  spake  boldly  (never  since  he  was  65 
born  was  he  half  so  blithe),  "Stop,  Sir  Knight,  bid  me  no 
more  blows.     I  have  stood  a  stroke  here  without  flinching, 
and  if  thou  give  me  another,  I  shall  requite  thee,  and  give 
thee  as  good  again.     By  the  covenant  made  betwixt  us  in 
Arthur's  hall  but  one  blow  falls  to  me  here.     Halt,  there- 70 
fore." 

Then  the  Green  Knight  drew  off  from  him  and  leaned  on 
his  axe,  setting  the  shaft  on  the  ground,  and  looked  on  Gawain 
as  he  stood  all  armed  and  faced  him  fearlessly  —  at  heart 
it  pleased  him  well.  Then  he  spake  merrily  in  a  loud  voice,  75 
and  said  to  the  knight,  "  Bold  sir,  be  not  so  fierce ;  no  man 
here  hath  done  thee  wrong,  nor  will  do,  save  by  covenant, 
as  we  made  at  Arthur's  court.  I  promised  thee  a  blow  and  \ 
thou  hast  it  —  hold  thyself  well  paid !  I  release  thee  of  all 
other  claims."  80 


16  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


GEOFFREY    OF    MONMOUTH 


Arthur's  Bravery 
{From  History  of  British  Kings,  Book  IX,  Chap.  TV) 

When  he  had  done  speaking,  St.  Dubricius,  archbishop 
of  Legions,  going  to  the  top  of  a  hill,  cried  out  with  a  loud 
voice,  "You  that  have  the  honour  to  profess  the  Christian 
faith,  keep  fixed  in  your  minds  the  love  which  you  owe  to 
5  your  country  and  fellow  subjects,  whose  sufferings  by  the 
treachery  of  the  pagans  will  be  an  everlasting  reproach 
tq  you,  if  you  do  not  courageously  defend  them.  It  is  your 
country  which  you  fight  for,  and  for  which  you  should,  when 
required,  voluntarily  suffer  death;    for  that  itself  is  victory 

10  and  the  cure  of  the  soul.  For  he  that  shall  die  for  his  brethren, 
offers  himself  a  living  sacrifice  to  God,  and  has  Christ 
for  his  example,  who  condescended  to  lay  down  his  life  for 
his  brethren.  If  therefore  any  of  you  shall  be  killed  in  this 
war,  that  death  itself,  which  is  suffered  in  so  glorious  a  cause, 

15  shall  be  to  him  for  penance  and  absolution  of  all  his  sins." 
At  these  words,  all  of  them,  encouraged  with  the  bene- 
diction  of   the   holy   prelate,    instantly   armed  themselves, 
and  prepared  to  obey  his  orders.     Also  Arthur  himself,  hav- 
ing put  on  a  coat  of  mail  suitable  to  the  grandeur  of  so  great 

20  a  king,  placed  a  golden  helmet  upon  his  head,  on  which  was 
engraven  the  figure  of  a  dragon;  and  on  his  shoulders  his 
shield  called  Priwen ;  upon  which  the  picture  of  the  blessed 
Mary,  mother  of  God,  was  painted,  in  order  to  put  him  fre- 
quently in  mind  of  her.     Then  girding  on  his  Caliburn,  which 

25  was  an  excellent  sword  made  in  the  isle  of  Avallon,  he  graced 
his  right  hand  with  his  lance,  named  Ron,  which  was  hard, 
broad,  and  fit  for  slaughter. 

After  this,  having  placed  his  men  in  order,  he  boldly  at- 
tacked the  Saxons,  who  were  drawn  out  in  the  shape  of  a 

30  wedge,  as  their  manner  was.     And  they,  notwithstanding 


JOHN  WICLIF  17 

that  the  Britons  fought  with  great  eagerness,  made  a  noble 
defence  all  that  day;  but  at  length,  towards  sunsetting, 
climbed  up  the  next  mountain,  which  served  them  for  a 
camp :  for  they  desired  no  larger  extent  of  ground,  since 
they  confided  very  much  in  their  numbers.  The  next  morn-  35 
ing  Arthur,  with  his  army,  went  up  the  mountain,  but  lost 
many  of  his  men  in  the  ascent,  by  the  advantage  which  the 
Saxons  had  in  their  station  on  the  top,  from  whence  they 
could  pour  down  upon  him  with  much  greater  speed  than 
he  was  able  to  advance  against  them.  Notwithstanding,  40 
after  a  very  hard  struggle,  the  Britons  gained  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  and  quickly  came  to  a  close  engagement  with 
the  enemy,  who  again  gave  them  a  warm  reception,  and  made 
a  vigorous  defence. 

In  this  manner  was  a  great  part  of  that  day  also  spent; 45 
whereupon  Arthur,  provoked  to  see  the  little  advantage  he 
had  yet  gained,  and  that  victory  still  continued  in  suspense, 
drew  out  his  Caliburn,  and  calling  upon  the  name  of  the 
blessed  Virgin,  rushed  forward  with  great  fury  into  the  thick- 
est of  the  enemy's  ranks ;    of  whom  (such  was  the  merit  of  50 
his  prayers)  not  one  escaped  alive  that  felt  the  fury  of  his 
sword ;   neither  did  he  give  over  the  fury  of  his  assault  until 
he  had  with  his  Caliburn  alone  killed  four  hundred  and  sev- 
enty men.     The  Britons  seeing  this  followed  their  leader 
in  great  multitudes,  and  made  slaughter  on  all  sides;    so 55 
that  Colgrin,  and  Bardulph  his  brother,  and  many  thousands 
more,  fell  before  them.     But  Cheldric,  in  this  imminent  dan- 
ger of  his  men,  betook  himself  to  flight. 

JOHN   WICLIF 
The  Beatitudes 

1.   Jhesus  forsothe,  seynge  cumpanyes,  wente  up  in  to  an 
hill ;  and  when  he  hadde  sete,  his  disciplis  camen  nise  to  hym. 


18  ENGLISH  LITERATURE     . 

2.   And  he,  openynge  his  mouthe,  tauste  to   hem,  say- 
inge, 
5     3.   Blessid  be  the  pore  in  spirit,  for  the  kingdam  in  hevenes 
is  heren. 

4.  Blessid  be  mylde  men,  for  thei  shuln  welde  the  eerthe. 

5.  Blessid  be  thei  that  mournen,  for  thei  shuln  be  com- 
fortid. 

10      6.    Blessid  be  thei  that  hungren  and  thristen  ristwisnesse, 
for  thei  shuln  be  fulfillid. 

7.  Blessid  be  mercyful  men,  for  thei  shuln  gete  mereye. 

8.  Blessid  be  thei  that  ben  of  clene  herte,  for  thei  shuln 
see  God. 

15     9.    Blessid  be  pesible  men,  for  thei  shuln  be  clepid  the  sonys 
of  God. 

10.  Blessid  be  thei  that  suffren  persecucioun  for  rist- 
wisnesse,  for  the  kingdam  of  hevenes  is  herun. 

11.  3ee  shulen   be  blessid,  when  men  shulen  curse  30U, 
20  and  shulen  pursue  30U,  and  shulen  say  al  yvel  aseins  30U 

leesing,  for  me. 

12.  Joye  zee  with  yn  forth,  and  glade  zee  with  out  forth, 
for  30ure  meede  is  plenteuouse  in  hevenes ;  forsothe  so  thei 
han  pursued  the  prophetis  that  weren  before  30U. 


WILLIAM    LANGLAND 

The  Vision  of  the  Field  Full  of  Folk 
{From  The  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman) 

In  a  summer  season,  when  soft  was  the  sun, 
In  rough  cloth  I  clad  me,  as  if  I  were  a  shepherd, 
In  habit  like  a  hermit  in  his  works  unholy. 
And  through  the  wide  world  I  went,  wonders  to  hear. 
But  on  a  May  morning,  on  Malvern  Hills, 
A  marvel  befell  me,  from  fairyland  it  seemed. 
I  was  weary  from  wandering,  so  I  went  to  rest 


WILLIAM  LANGLAND  19 

On  a  broad  bank  by  the  side  of  a  brook ; 

And  as  I  lay  and  leaned  and  looked  into  the  waters, 

I  slumbered  in  a  sleeping,  it  sounded  so  merry.  10 

And  I  dreamed  a  marvelous  dream. 

I  was  in  a  wilderness,  wist  I  not  where; 

And  as  eastward  I  looked,  toward  the  sun, 

I  saw  a  tower  on  a  hill,  fairly  fashioned,     . 

Beneath  it  a  dale,  and  in  the  dale  a  dungeon,  15 

With  a  deep  ditch,  dark  and  dreadful  to  see. 

A  fair  field  of  folk  found  I  there  between, 

All  manner  of  men,  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

Working  and  wandering  as  the  world  demandeth. 

Some  were  for  plowing,  and  played  full  seldom,  20 

Setting  seed  and  sowing  they  labored  hard. 

To  win  what  wasters  with  gluttony  destroy. 

Some  were  for  pride,  appareled  themselves  accordingly. 

In  fashion  of  their  clothing  they  came  strangely  dressed. 

Many  to  prayers  and  penance  devoted  themselves,  25 

For  love  of  our  Lord  they  lived  very  strictly, 

In  hope  of  bliss  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; 

As  nuns  and  hermits  that  held  themselves  in  their  cells, 

And  desire  not  in  the  country  to  wander  about 

With  dainty  living  their  body  to  please.  30 

Some  were  for  trade ;  they  throve  the  better. 

As  it  seems  to  our  sight  that  thrive  they  do. 

And  some  were  amusers,  as  minstrels  can  be. 

And  get  gold  with  their  glee,  guiltless,  I  believe. 

Barons  and  burgesses,  bondmen  also,  35 

I  saw  in  that  assembly,  as  ye  shall  hear  later, 

Bakers  and  butchers  and  brewers  many, 

Woolen  weavers  and  weavers  of  linen, 

Tailors,  tanners,  and  tuckers  too. 

Masons,  miners,  and  other  crafts  many,  40 

Ditchers  and  delvers,  that  do  their  work  ill. 

And  spend  the  whole  day  with,  "God  save  you,  Dame  Emma." 

Cooks  and  their  men  cry  out,  "Hot  pies,  hot ! 

Good  geese  and  pigs  !    Come  and  dine,  come  and  dine  !" 


20  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

45  Taverners  to  them  told  the  same  tale, 

With  wine  from  Alsatia,  from  Gascony  too, 

From  the  Rhine,  from  Rochelle,  the  roast  to  digest. 

All  this  I  saw  sleeping,  and  seven  times  more. 


SIR    JOHN    MANDEVILLE 

The  Land  of  Prester  John 
{From  Travels,  Chap.  XXX) 

In  the  land  of  Prester  John  be  many  diverse  things  and 
many  precious  stones,  so  great  and  so  large,  that  men  make 
of  them  vessels,  as. platters,  dishes,  and  cups.  And  many 
other  marvels  be  there,  thai  it  were  too  cumbrous  and  too 
5  long  to  put  it  in  scripture  of  books ;  but  of  the  principal 
isles  and  of  his  estate  and  of  his  law,  I  shall  tell  you  some 
part. 

This  Emperor  Prester  John  is  Christian,  and  a  great  part 
of  his  country  also.     But  yet,  they  have  not  all  the  articles 

10  of  our  faith  as  we  have.  They  believe  well  in  the  Father, 
in  the  Son,  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost.  And  they  be  full  devout 
and  right  true  one  to  another.  And  they  set  not  by  no  bar- 
retts,  nor  by  cautels,  nor  of  no  deceits. 

And  he  hath  under  him  seventy-two  provinces,  and  in 

15  every  province  is  a  king.  And  these  kings  have  kings  under 
them,  and  all  be  tributaries  to  Prester  John.  And  he  hath 
in  his  lordships  many  great  marvels. 

For  in  his  country  is  the  sea  that  men  clepe  the  Gravelly 
Sea,  that  is  all  gravel  and  sand,  without  any  drop  of  water, 

20  and  it  ebbeth  and  floweth  in  great  waves  as  other  seas  do, 
and  it  is  never  still  nor  in  peace,  in  no  manner  season.  And 
no  man  may  pass  that  sea  by  navy,  nor  by  no  manner  of 
craft,  iind  therefore  may  no  man  know  what  land  is  beyond 
that  sea.     And  albeit  that  it  have  no  water,  yet  men  find 

25  therein  and  on  the  banks  full  good  fish  of  other  manner  of 


SIR  JOHN  MANDEVILLE  21 

kind  and  shape,  than  men  find  in  any  other  sea,  and  they  be 
of  right  good  taste  and  deUcious  to  man's  meat. 

And  a  three  journeys  long  from  that  sea  be  great  mountains, 
out  of  which  goeth  out  a  great  flood  that  cometh  out  of  Para- 
dise. And  it  is  full  of  precious  stones,  without  any  drop  of  30 
water,  and  it  runneth  through  the  desert  on  that  one  side,  so 
that  it  maketh  the  sea  gravelly ;  and  it  beareth  into  that  sea, 
and  there  it  endeth.  And  that  flome  runneth,  also,  three  days 
in  the  week,  and  bringeth  with  him  great  stones  and  the  rocks 
also  therewith,  and  that  great  plenty.  And  anon,  as  they  35 
be  entered  into  the  Gravelly  Sea,  they  be  seen  no  more,  but 
lost  for  evermore.  And  in  those  three  days  that  that  river 
runneth,  no  man  dare  enter  into  it ;  but  in  the  other  days  men 
dare  enter  well  enough. 

Also  beyond  that  flome,  more  upward  to  the  deserts,  is  a  40 
great  plain  all  gravelly,  between  the  mountains.  And  in 
that  plain,  every  day  at  the  sun-rising,  begin  to  grow  small 
trees,  and  they  grow  till  mid-day,  bearing  fruit ;  but  no  man 
dare  take  of  that  fruit,  for  it  is  a  thing  of  faerie.  And  after 
mid-day,  they  decrease  and  enter  again  into  the  earth,  so  45 
that  at  the  going  down  of  the  sun  they  appear  no  more.  And 
so  they  do,  every  day.     And  that  is  a  great  marvel. 


22  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

GEOFFREY    CHAUCER 

The  Prologue 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rote. 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  Ucour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  floiir ; 
5  Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne. 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 

10  That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye, 

(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages) ; 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 
(And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes) 
To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes ; 

15  And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 

The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke. 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke. 

When  April  with  its  sweet  showers  hath  pierced  the  dry- 
ness of  March  to  the  root,  and  hath  bathed  every  vein  in 
the  sort  of  moisture  by  virtue  of  which  flowers  grow ;  when 
Zephyr  also  with  its  sweet  breath  hath  quickened  the  tender 
shoots  in  every  wood  and  heath,  and  the  young  sun  hath 
run  his  half-course  in  the  Ram,  and  little  birds  make  melody, 
that  sleep  all  night  with  open  eye  (nature  so  stirs  them  in 
their  hearts) :  then  people  long  to  go  on  pilgrimages  (and 
palmers  to  seek  strange  shores)  to  distant  shrines,  known  in 
sundry  lands ;  and  especially,  from  the  end  of  every  county 
of  England  to  Canterbury  they  go,  to  seek  the  holy  blessed 
martyr,  who  hath  helped  them  when  they  were  sick. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  23 

Bifel  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day. 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay  20 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage. 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye. 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-f alle  26 

In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle. 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde ; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde. 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon. 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 
And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 
To  take  our  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space,  35 

Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace. 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoim. 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 


It  happened  one  day  in  that  season,  while  I  was  lodging 
at  the  Tabard  Inn  in  Southwark,  ready  to  go  on  my  pil- 
grimage with  devout  heart,  that  at  night  there  came  into 
that  hostelry  just  twenty-nine  sundry  folk  in  a  company, 
by  chance  come  together,  who  were  going  to  ride  to  Canter- 
bury, The  chambers  and  the  stables  were  large,  and  we 
were  entertained  in  the  best  fashion.  And  shortly,  when 
the  sun  had  gone  down,  I  had  spoken  with  them  every  one, 
so  that  I  was  of  their  fellowship  right  away ;  and  we  made 
an  agreement  to  rise  early  to  take  our  way,  as  I  shall  describe 
to  you. 

But  nevertheless,  while  I  have  time  and  space,  before  I  pro- 
ceed further  in  my  story,  methinks  it  is  reasonable  to  tell  you 
the  condition  of  each  of  them,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  and  what 


24  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
40  And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree ; 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne. 


Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 

That  of  hir  smyUng  was  f  ul  simple  and  coy ; 

Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seynt  Loy, 
45  And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 

Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 

Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely ; 

And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly, 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
60  For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  hir  unknowe. 

At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle ; 

She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  f  alle, 

Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 

Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
55  That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hir  brest. 

In  curteisye  was  set  ful  moche  hir  lest. 

sort  of  men  they  were,  of  what  rank,  and  how  they  were 
dressed. 

There  was  a  nun,  a  Prioress,  who  was  very  simple  and 
quiet  in  her  smiling;  her  greatest  oath  was  only  by  Saint 
Loy,  and  she  was  called  Madame  Eglentyne.  Very  well 
she  sang  the  divine  service,  intoned  in  her  nose  in  a  very 
seemly  manner;  and  French  she  spoke  well,  excellently, 
according  to  the  school  of  Stratford-at-Bowe,  for  Parisian 
French  was  unknown  to  her.  She  had  been  well  taught 
how  to  eat ;  she  let  not  a  morsel  fall  from  her  lips,  nor  did 
she  wet  her  fingers  in  her  deep  sauce.  She  could  lift  and 
hold  a  morsel  so  skilfully  that  not  a  drop  fell  upon  her  breast. 
Great  pleasure  she  took  in  matters  of  breeding.     Her  upper 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  25 

Hit  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 

That  in  hir  coppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 

Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte. 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte,  60 

And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  disport, 

And  full  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port, 

And  peyned  hir  to  countrefete  chere 

Of  court,  and  been  estatlich  of  manere. 

And  to  been  holden  digne  of  reverence.  65 

But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience. 

She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous. 

She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 

Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde  70 

With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed. 

But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed. 

Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte  : 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hir  wimpel  pinched  was ;  75 

Hir  nose  tretys ;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas ; 


lip  she  wiped  so  clean  that  not  a  particle  of  grease  was  seen  in 
her  cup  when  she  had  drunk  her  draught.  Very  gracefully 
she  reached  for  her  food,  and  certainly  she  was  very  genial, 
and  pleasant,  and  attractive  in  behavior,  and  took  pains 
to  imitate  courtly  manners,  and  be  dignified,  and  to  be  held 
worthy  of  reverence.  But  to  speak  of  her  tenderness,  she 
was  so  charitable  and  full  of  pity  —  she  would  weep  if  she 
saw  a  mouse  caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bleeding. 
Some  little  dogs  she  had,  that  she  fed  with  cooked  meat,  or 
milk  and  fine  bread.  But  much  she  wept  if  one  of  them  died, 
or  if  anybody  struck  one  sharply  with  a  stick ;  and  she  was 
all  sympathy  and  tender  heart.  Very  becomingly  was  her 
wimple  gathered ;  her  nose  was  shapely ;  her  eyes  were 
gray  as  glass ;  her  mouth  rather  small,  as  well  as  soft  and  red. 


26  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  ther-to  sof te  and  reed ; 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed ; 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe ; 
80  For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetis  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene  ; 

And  ther-on  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
86  On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 

And  after.  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 

That  un-to  logik  hadde  longe  y-go. 

As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
90  And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake ; 

But  loked  holwe,  and  ther-to  soberly. 

Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest  courtepy; 

For  he  had  geten  him  yet  no  benefyce, 

Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  offyce. 
95  For  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  heed 

Twenty  bokes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed. 

Truly  she  had  a  fine  forehead  —  it  was  almost  a  span  broad, 
I  guess ;  for  surely  she  was  not  undergrown.  Her  cloak  was 
very  handsome,  as  I  was  aware.  Upon  her  arm  she  carried 
a  pair  of  beads,  made  of  small  corals,  with  green  gauds ;  and 
upon  it  hung  a  brooch  of  bright  gold,  on  which  was  inscribed 
a  capital  A,  and  under  that.  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

There  was  also  a  scholar  from  Oxford,  who  had  long  de- 
voted himself  to  the  study  of  logic.  His  horse  was  as  lean 
as  a  rake ;  and  he  himself  was  not  very  fat,  I  must  say ;  but 
looked  hollow,  and  sad  besides.  His  coat  was  quite  thread- 
bare; for  he  had  as  yet  secured  no  church  preferment,  and 
he  was  not  so  worldly  as  to  accept  a  secular  position.  For 
he  would  rather  have  at  his  bed's  head  twenty  books  bound 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  27 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye, 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,  or  gay  sautrye. 

But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 

Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre ;  100 

But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  freendes  hente. 

On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente, 

And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 

Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wher-with  to  scoleye. 

Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  hede.  105 

Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede, 

And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  reverence, 

And  short  and  quik,  and  ful  of  hy  sentence. 

Souninge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 

And  gladly  wolde  he  leme,  and  gladly  teche.  110 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nones. 
To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones. 
And  poudre-marchant  tart,  and  galingale. 
Wei  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London  ale. 

in  black  or  red,  of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy,  than  fine 
clothes,  or  a  fiddle,  or  a  gay  psaltery.  But  although  he  was 
a  philosopher,  he  had  little  money  in  his  coffer;  but  all 
that  he  could  get  from  his  friends,  he  spent  on  books  and 
learning,  and  diligently  prayed  for  the  souls  of  those  who 
gave  him  the  wherewithal  to  pursue  his  studies.  He  gave 
most  care  and  most  thought  to  study.  He  spoke  not  a  word 
more  than  was  necessary,  and  what  he  did  speak  was  said  in 
good  form  and  reverently,  and  briefly,  and  full  of  meaning. 
His  speech  tended  to  moral  virtue,  and  he  was  glad  both  to 
learn  and  to  teach. 

A  Cook  they  had  with  them  for  the  occasion,  to  boil  the 
chickens  with  the  marrow-bones,  and  sweet  roots  and  spices. 
He  knew  well  how  to  distinguish  a  draught  of  London  ale. 


28  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

115  He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,  and  broille,  and  frye, 

Maken  mortreux,  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me, 
That  on  his  shine  a  mormal  hadde  he ; 
For  blankmanger,  that  made  he  with  the  beste. 

120  A  good  man  was  ther  of  rehgioun, 

And  was  a  povre  Persoun  of  a  toun ; 

But  riehe  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 

He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche ; 
125  His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 

Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 

And  in  adversitee  f ul  pacient ; 

And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ofte  sythes. 

Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythes, 
130  But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 

Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute 

Of  his  offring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 

He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce. 

He  could  roast,  and  boil,  and  broil,  and  fry,  make  soups,  and 
bake  pies  well.  But  it  was  great  pity,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  that 
he  had  a  bad  sore  on  his  shin ;  he  made  minced  chicken  as 
well  as  the  best. 

There  was  a  thoroughly  religious  man,  a  parish  priest, 
who  was  rich  in  holy  thought  and  work.  He  was,  moreover, 
a  learned  man,  a  scholar,  who  wished  to  preach  Christ's 
gospel  truly,  and  devoutly  to  teach  his  parishioners.  He 
was  benignant  and  exceedingly  diligent,  and  very  patient 
in  adversity ;  and  such  he  was  proved  many  times.  He  was 
very  loath  to  excommunicate  any  for  failure  to  pay  their 
tithes ;  he  would  rather  give  to  his  poor  parishioners  part 
of  their  voluntary  contributions  and  of  his  own  regular  in- 
come.    A  very  little  was  a  sufficiency  for  him.     His  parish 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  29 

Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  a-sonder, 

But  he  ne  lafte  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder,  135 

In  siknes  nor  in  meschief  to  visyte 

The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lyte, 

Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf . 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf. 

That  first  he  wroghte,  and  afterward  he  taughte ;  140 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte ; 

And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to. 

That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  iren  do  ? 

For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 

No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste ;  145 

And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keep, 

A  spotted  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 

Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive. 

By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold  live. 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre,  150 

And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  myre. 

And  ran  to  London,  un-to  seynt  Poules, 

To  seken  him  a  chaunterie  for  soules, 

was  large,  and  the  houses  were  far  apart;  but  neither  for 
rain  nor  for  thunder  did  he  leave  off  visiting,  when  they 
were  sick  or  in  trouble,  the  furthest  in  his  parish,  the  great 
and  the  lowly,  going  on  foot,  with  a  staff  in  his  hand.  This 
noble  example  to  his  sheep  he  gave,  that  first  he  did  things 
and  then  he  taught.  The  words  he  picked  up  in  the  gospel ; 
and  this  figure  of  speech  he  added  to  it,  that  if  gold  rust, 
what  shall  iron  do  ?  For  if  a  priest  be  wicked,  in  whom  we 
trust,  it  is  no  wonder  if  an  ignorant  man  go  astray.  It  is 
a  shame,  too,  if  a  priest  think  of  it,  to  find  a  filthy  shepherd 
and  a  clean  sheep.  A  priest  ought  indeed  to  give  example 
by  his  cleanness  how  his  sheep  should  live.  He  did  not  leave 
his  parish  duties  to  be  performed  by  a  hireling,  and  his 
sheep  encumbered  in  the  mire,  while  he  ran  off  to  Saint  Paul's 
in  London  to  get  an  endowed  position  for  himself,  or  to 


30  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde ; 
156  But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  miscarie ; 

He  was  a  shepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 

And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 

He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous, 
160  Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne, 

But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 

To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisinesse : 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat, 
166  What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat. 

Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 

A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  is. 

He  wayted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 

Ne  maked  him  a  spyced  conscience, 
170  But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve. 

He  taughte,  and  first  he  folwed  it  himselve. 


become  a  member  of  a  brotherhood.  But  he  dwelt  at  home, 
and  took  good  care  of  the  fold,  so  that  the  wolf  never  made 
trouble  in  it;  he  was  a  shepherd  and  not  a  hireling.  Al- 
though he  himself  was  holy  and  virtuous,  he  was  not  harsh 
with  sinful  men,  nor  in  his  speech  forbidding  or  too  dignified ; 
but  in  his  teaching  discreet  and  considerate.  To  draw  people 
to  heaven  by  fair  living  and  by  good  example  —  this  was  his 
business ;  but  if  any  one  was  obstinate,  whoever  he  was, 
of  high  or  low  estate,  that  one  he  would  reprove  sharply. 
A  better  priest  I  do  not  believe  there  is  anywhere.  He 
did  not  look  for  display  or  honor,  and  he  did  not  work 
up  an  overscrupulous  conscience;  but  the  teaching  of 
Christ  and  his  twelve  apostles  he  taught,  first  following  it 
himself. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  31 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the  nones, 
Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther  he  cam, 
At  wrastUng  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram.  175 

He  was  short-sholdred,  brood,  a  thikke  knarre, 
Ther  nas  no  dore  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harre, 
Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  herd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed, 

And  ther-to  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade.  180 

Up-on  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  werte,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres, 
Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres ; 
His  nose-thirles  blake  were  and  wyde. 

A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde ;  185 

His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  f  orneys. 
He  was  a  janglere  and  a  goHardeys, 
And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryes. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corn,  and  tollen  thryes ; 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold,  pardee.    *  190 

A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  fellow,  I  assure  you,  big  in  muscle 
and  in  bones.  That  was  well  proved ;  for  everywhere  he 
went,  he  always  won  the  prize  in  wrestling.  He  had  a  short 
upper  arm ;  he  was  broad,  a  muscular  fellow :  there  was 
no  door  that  he  couldn't  lift  off  the  hinges  or  break  it  by 
butting  into  it  with  his  head.  His  beard  was  as  red  as  a 
sow  or  fox,  and  besides  that  it  was  broad,  like  a  spade. 
Right  on  the  top  of  his  nose  he  had  a  wart,  and  on  it  there 
was  a  tuft  of  hairs,  red  as  the  bristles  of  a  sow's  ears ;  his 
nostrils  were  large  and  black.  He  carried  at  his  side  a 
sword  and  buckler;  his  mouth  was  as  big  as  a  big  fur- 
nace. He  talked  loud  and  told  coarse  jokes,  mostly 
wicked  and  scurrilous.  He  knew  how  to  steal  grain,  and 
take  his  toll  thrice;  and  yet  he  had,  certainly,  a  thumb 
of  gold.     He  wore  a  white  coat  and  a  blue  hood.     He  could 


32  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

A  baggepype  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne, 
And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 

With  him  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
195  Of  Rouncival,  his  freend  and  his  compeer, 

That  streight  was  comen  fro  the  court  of  Rome. 

Ful  loude  he  song,  "Com  hider,  love,  to  me." 

This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun. 

Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
200  This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex, 

But  smothe  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flex ; 

By  ounces  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 

And  ther-with  he  his  shuldres  over-spradde ; 

But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons  oon  and  oon ; 
205  .    But  hood,  for  jolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon. 

For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 

Him  thoughte,  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  jet ; 

Dischevele,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 

Swiche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 

play  a  bagpipe  well,  and  with  its  music  he  brought  us  out 
of  town. 

With  the  Summoner  rode  a  gentle  Pardoner  from  Roun- 
cival, his  friend  and  his  comrade,  who  had  come  straight 
from  the  court  of  Rome.  Loudly  he  sang,  "Come  hither, 
love,  to  me."  The  Summoner  sang  a  good  bass  to  him  — 
never  a  trumpet  was  half  so  loud.  This  pardoner  had  hair 
as  yellow  as  wax,  which  hung  smooth,  like  a  hank  of  flax. 
In  bunches  his  locks  hung,  overspreading  his  shoulders ; 
but  it  lay  in  thin  clusters  separately.  For  greater  comfort 
he  wore  no  hood,  for  it  was  packed  in  his  wallet.  He  thought 
he  was  altogether  in  the  latest  fashion.  He  rode  with  head 
bare,  except  for  his  cap,  and  with  his  hair  hanging  loose. 
He  had  glaring  eyes  like  a  hare.     A  veronica  he  had  sewed 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  33 

A  vernicle  hadde  he  sowed  on  his  cappe.  210 

His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 

Bret-ful  of  pardoun  come  from  Rome  al  hoot. 

A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot. 

No  herd  hadde  he,  ne  never  sholde  have. 

As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave ;  216 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  unto  Ware, 

Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 

For  in  his  male  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer. 

Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veyl : 

He  seyde,  he  hadde  a  gobet  of  the  seyl  220 

That  seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he  wente 

Up-on  the  see,  til  Jesu  Crist  him  hente. 

He  hadde  a  croys  of  latoun,  ful  of  stones. 

And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones. 

But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond  225 

A  povre  person  dwelling  up-on  lond, 

Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneye 

Than  that  the  person  got  in  monthes  tweye. 

And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  jajjes, 

He  made  the  person  and  the  f>eple  his  apes.  230 

on  his  cap;  and  in  front  of  him,  on  his  lap,  lay  his  wallet, 
brimful  of  pardons  all  hot  from  Rome.  A  voice  he  had 
as  small  as  a  goat.  He  had  no  beard,  and  was  never  going 
to  have  one ;  it  was  as  smooth  as  if  it  had  just  been  shaved. 
But  in  his  profession  —  there  was  never  such  another  par- 
doner from  Berwick  to  Ware.  In  his  wallet  he  had  a  pillow- 
case, which  he  said  was  Our  Lady's  veil;  he  said  he  had  a 
piece  of  the  sail  that  Saint  Peter  had  when  he  went  on  the 
sea,  and  Jesus  Christ  caught  hold  of  him.  He  had  a  metal 
cross  set  full  of  precious  stones,  and  in  a  bottle  he  had  pig's 
bones.  With  these  relics,  whenever  he  found  a  poor  person 
living  in  the  country,  in  a  single  day  he  got  more  money 
than  the  parish  priest  got  in  two  months.  Thus,  with  flat- 
tery and  tricks,  he  made  the  priest  and  the  people  his  dupes. 


34  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste, 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 
Wei  coude  he  rede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie, 
But  alderbest  he  song  an  offertorie ; 
235  For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe, 

He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle  his  tonge. 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  f  ul  wel  coude ; 
Therefore  he  song  so  meriely  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
240  Th'  estat,  th'array,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the  cause 

Why  that  assembled  was  this  companye 

In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye, 

That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  Belle. 

But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle 
245  How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night. 

Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 

And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage. 

And  al  the  remenaunt  of  our  pilgrimage. 

A  semely  man  our  hoste  was  with-alle 
250  For  to  han  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle ; 

But  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  he  was  a  noble  ecclesiast  in  the 
church.  He  could  read  a  lesson  or  a  story  admirably,  but 
best  of  all  was  his  singing  of  the  offertory ;  for  he  knew  well 
that,  when  the  song  was  sung,  he  had  to  preach  and  soften 
his  tongue  to  gain  silver  as  he  very  well  could ;  therefore  he 
sang  so  merrily  and  loud. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  word  or  two,  the  condi- 
tion, the  dress,  the  number,  and  also  the  reason  why  this 
company  was  gathered  in  Southwark  at  this  pleasant  hos- 
telry called  the  Tabard,  near  the  Bell.  Now  it  is  time  to 
tell  you  how  we  conducted  ourselves  the  night  we  alighted 
in  the  inn ;  and  afterwards  I  will  tell  of  our  journey,  and  all 
the  rest  of  our  pilgrimage. 

Our  host  was  in  all  respects  fitted  to  be  a  marshal  of  a  hall. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  35 

A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepe, 

A  fairer  burgeys  is  ther  noon  in  Chepe : 

Bold  of  his  speche,  and  wys,  and  wel  y-taught. 

And  of  manhod  him  lakkede  right  naught. 

Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  mery  man,  265 

And  after  sop>er  pleyen  he  bigan, 

And  spak  of  mirthe  amonges  othere  thiriges, 

Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekeninges ; 

And  seyde  thus  :  "Now,  lordinges,  trewely 

Ye  been  to  me  right  welcome  hertely  :  260 

For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 

I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  mery  a  companye 

At  ones  in  this  herberwe  as  is  now. 

Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  mirthe,  wiste  I  how. 

And  of  a  mirthe,  I  am  right  now  bithoght,  •  265 

To  doon  yow  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 

Ye  goon  to  Caunterbury ;  God  yow  spede. 
The  blisful  martir  quyte  yow  your  mede. 
And  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye. 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talen  and  to  pleye ;  270 


A  large  man,  with  bright  eyes,  there  is  not  a  finer  citizen  in 
all  Cheapside,  bold  in  speech,  sensible,  well  taught,  and  lack- 
ing absolutely  nothing  of  manhood.  Besides  he  was  a  jolly 
fellow;  and  after  supper  he  began  to  make  merry;  and 
after  we  had  paid  our  bills,  he  spoke  jovially,  among  other 
things,  and  said :  "  Now,  sirs,  you  are  welcome  to  me  with 
all  my  heart ;  for  by  my  troth,  I  have  not  seen  this  year  so 
merry  a  company  in  this  inn  at  one  time  as  now.  I  would 
gladly  give  you  some  pleasure  if  I  knew  how;  and  I  have 
just  now  thought  of  a  good  plan  to  amuse  you,  and  it  shall 
cost  you  nothing. 

"  You  are  going  to  Canterbury ;  God  speed  you  !  the  blessed 
martyr  give  you  your  reward !  Now  I  know  well  that,  as 
you  travel,  you  plan  to  tell  stories  and  jokes ;  for  surely  there 


36  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

For  trewely,  confort  ne  mirthe  is  noon 

To  ryde  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon ; 

And  therfore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport, 

As  I  seyde  erst,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 
275  And  if  yow  lyketh  alle,  by  oon  assent, 

Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  jugement, 

And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 

To-morwe,  whan  ye  ryden  by  the  weye, 

Now,  by  my  fader  soule,  that  is  deed, 
280  But  ye  be  merye,  I  wol  yeve  yow  myn  heed. 

Hold  up  your  hond,  withouten  more  speche." 
Our  counseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche ; 

Us  thoughte  it  was  noght  worth  to  make  it  wys, 

And  graunted  him  with-outen  more  avys, 
285  And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  him  leste. 

"Lordinges,"  quod  he,  "now  herkneth  for  the  beste; 

But  tak  it  not,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn ; 

This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and  pleyn, 

That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  your  weye, 
290  In  this  viage,  shal  telle  tales  tweye, 

is  neither  comfort  nor  pleasure  in  riding  along  dumb  as  a 
stone,  and  therefore  will  I  make  a  diversion  for  you,  as  I 
said  before,  and  give  you  some  entertainment.  And  if  it 
shall  please  you  all  to  accept  unanimously  my  decision  and 
do  as  I  say,  to-morrow  when  you  ride,  —  now  by  the  soul  of 
my  dead  father,  unless  you  are  merry  I  will  give  you  my 
head !     Hold  up  your  hands,  without  more  ado." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  get  our  opinion.  It  seemed  to  iis 
not  worth  while  to  make  it  a  matter  for  deliberation,  and  we 
granted  his  wish  without  hesitation,  and  bade  him  give  his 
verdict  as  it  pleased  him. 

"Sirs,"  said  he,  "now  barken,  but  don't,  I  pray  you,  dis- 
dain it :  this  is  the  point,  to  speak  briefly  and  plainly,  that 
each  of  you,  to  make  the  time  pass  quickly,  shall  tell  on  this 
journey  two  tales  on  the  way  to  Canterbury,  and  on  the 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  37 

To  Caunterbury-ward,  I  mene  it  so, 

And  hom-ward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two, 

Of  aventures  that  whylom  han  bifalle. 

And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  him  best  of  alle, 

That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  cas  295 

Tales  of  best  sentence  and  most  solas, 

Shal  han  a  soper  at  our  aller  cost 

Here  in  this  place,  sitting  by  this  post. 

Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunterbury. 

And  for  to  make  yow  the  more  mery,  300 

I  wol  my-selven  gladly  with  yow  ryde. 

Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  yom-  gyde. 

And  who-so  wol  my  jugement  withseye 

Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 

And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so,  305 

Tel  me  anon,  with-outen  wordes  mo. 

And  I  wol  erly  shape  me  therfore." 

This  thing  was  graunted,  and  our  othes  swore 
With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  him  also 
That  he  wold  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so,  310 


way  home  he  shall  tell  two  others,  of  adventures  that  hap- 
pened some  time  or  other.  And  the  one  who  conducts  him- 
self best  of  all,  that  is  to  say,  who  tells  under  this  plan  tales 
best  suited  for  instruction  and  amusement,  shall  have  a 
supper  at  the  expense  of  us  all,  here  in  this  place,  sitting  by 
this  post,  when  we  return  from  Canterbury.  In  order 
to  make  you  more  merry,  I  will  myself  gladly  ride  with  you, 
all  at  my  own  expense,  and  be  your  guide.  And  whoever 
disputes  my  judgment  shall  pay  all  that  we  spend  on  the 
road.  If  you  agree,  tell  me  at  once,  without  more  words, 
and  I  will  quickly  get  ready." 

The  thing  was  granted,  and  we  took  our  oaths  with  glad 
heart,  and  prayed  him  also  that  he  would  vouchsafe  to  do 
so,  and  that  he  would  be  our  governor  and  the  judge  and 


38  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  that  he  wolde  been  our  governour, 

And  of  our  tales  juge  and  reportour. 

And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  prys ; 

And  we  wold  reuled  been  at  his  devys, 
315  In  heigh  and  lowe ;  and  thus,  by  oon  assent. 

We  been  acorded  to  his  jugement. 

And  ther-up-on  the  wyn  was  f  et  anon ; 

We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wente  echon, 

With-outen  any  lenger  taryinge. 
320  A-morwe,  whan  that  day  bigan  to  springe. 

Up  roos  our  host,  and  was  our  aller  cok. 

And  gadrede  us  togidre,  alle  in  a  flok, 

And  forth  we  riden,  a  litel  more  than  pas, 

Un-to  the  watering  of  seint  Thomas. 
325  And  there  our  host  bigan  his  hors  areste, 

And  seyde;   "Lordinges,  herkneth  if  yow  leste. 

Ye  woot  your  forward,  and  I  it  yow  recorde. 

If  even-song  and  morwe-song  acorde, 

Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
330  As  ever  mote  I  drinke  wyn  or  ale, 

Who-so  be  rebel  to  my  jugement 

Shal  paye  for  al  that  by  the  weye  is  spent. 

reporter  of  our  tales,  and  that  he  would  set  a  supper  at  a 
fixed  price;  we  would  be  ruled  by  his  opinion  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  so  we  unanimously  agreed  to  his  judgment. 
Thereupon  the  wine  was  fetched  right  away ;  we  drank,  and 
each  one  went  to  rest  without  longer  tarrying. 

In  the  morning  at  daybreak,  up  rose  our  host  and  was 
cock  of  us  all,  and  gathered  us  all  together  in  a  flock,  and  we 
rode  forth  at  a  little  more  than  a  foot-pace  to  the  Watering 
of  Saint  Thomas.  There  our  host  stopped  his  horse  and 
said :  "  Sirs,  listen,  please.  You  know  your  agreement, 
and  I  recall  it  to  your  memory.  If  evening  song  and  morn- 
ing song  agree,  let's  see  now  who  shall  tell  the  first  tale.  As 
surely  as  I  hope  to  drink  wine  or  ale,  whoever  rebels  against 
my  judgment  shall  pay  for  all  that  is  spent  on  the  road. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  39 

Now  draweth  cut,  er  that  we  ferrer  twinne  ; 

He  which  that  hath  the  shortest  shal  beginne. 

Sire  knight,"  quod  he,  "my  maister  and  my  lord,  335 

Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  acord. 

Cometh  neer,"  quod  he,  "my  lady  prioresse; 

And  ye,  sir  clerk,  lat  be  your  shamfastnesse, 

Ne  studieth  noght;  ley  hond  to,  every  man." 

Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  bigan,  340 

And  shortly  for  to  tellen,  as  it  was. 
Were  it  by  aventure,  or  sort,  or  cas. 
The  sothe  is  this,  the  cut  fil  to  the  knight. 
Of  which  f ul  blythe  and  glad  was  every  wight ; 
And  telle  he  moste  his  tale,  as  was  resoun,  345 

By  forward  and  by  composicioun, 
As  ye  han  herd ;  what  nedeth  wordes  mo  ? 
And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  it  was  so. 
As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient 

To  kepe  his  forward  by  his  free  assent,  350 

He  seyde  :  "Sin  I  shal  beginne  the  game. 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut,  a  Goddes  name ! 
Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I  seye." 

•Now  draw  lots  before  we  go  further,  and  whoever  has  the 
shortest  shall  begin.  Sir  Knight,"  said  he,  "my  master 
and  my  lord,  now  draw,  for  that  is  my  judgment.  Come 
nearer,"  said  he,  "my  lady  Prioress ;  and  you,  Sir  Clerk,  put 
aside  your  modesty,  don't  wait  at  all ;  come  up  everybody." 
Immediately  every  one  began  to  draw,  and  to  tell  it  briefly, 
whether  it  was  by  luck,  or  lot,  or  chance,  the  truth  is  this  — 
the  lot  fell  to  the  Knight,  at  which  everybody  was  pleased ; 
and  he  had  to  tell  his  tale,  as  was  right,  according  to  agree- 
ment, as  you  have  heard ;  what's  the  use  of  saying  more  ? 
WTien  this  good  man  saw  that  it  was  so,  like  one  who  was 
sensible  and  obedient  to  keep  an  agreement  made  by  his 
free  will,  he  said :  "  Since  I  am  to  begin  the  game,  why ! 
welcome  be  the  lot,  in  God's  name !  Now  let  us  ride ;  and 
hear  what  I  say." 


40  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  Pardoner's  Tale 
{From  The  Canterbury  Tales) 

In  Flaundres  whylom  was  a  companye 

Of  yonge  folk,  that  haunteden  folye, 

A  ryot,  hasard,  stewes,  and  tavernes, 

Where-as,  with  harpes,  lutes,  and  giternes, 
6  They  daunce  and  pleye  at  dees  both  day  and  night, 

And  ete  also  and  drinken  over  hir  might, 

Thurgh  which  they  doon  the  devel  sacrifyse 

With-in  that  develes  temple,  in  cursed  wyse. 

By  superfluitee  abhominable ; 
10  Hir  othes  been  so  grete  and  so  dampnable, 

That  it  is  grisly  for  to  here  hem  swere ; 

Our  blissed  lordes  body  they  to-tere ; 

Hem  thoughte  Jewes  rente  him  noght  y-nough ; 

And  ech  of  hem  at  otheres  sinne  lough. 
15  Thise  ryotoures  three,  of  whiche  I  telle, 

Longe  erst  er  pryme  rong  of  any  belle. 

Were  set  hem  in  a  taverne  for  to  drinke ; 

And  as  they  satte,  they  herde  a  belle  clinke 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  in  Flanders  a  company  of 
young  people  who  followed  after  foolishness  —  as  riotous 
living,  gambling,  brothels,  and  taverns,  where  with  harps, 
lutes,  and  guitars  they  dance  and  play  at  dice  both  day  and 
night,  and  also  eat  and  drink  beyond  their  capacity,  by 
which  they  do  sacrifice  to  the  devil  in  that  devil's  temple 
in  scandalous  fashion,  by  outrageous  excess.  Their  oaths 
are  so  many  and  so  dreadful  that  it  is  terrible  to  hear  them 
swear.  Our  blessed  Lord's  body  they  do  tear  to  pieces  — 
it  seemed  to  them  Jews  tore  him  not  enough;  and  each  of 
them  laughed  at  the  others'  sins. 

These  three  rioters  of  whom  I  tell,  long  before  any  bell 
struck  nine,  had  gone  into  a  tavern  to  drink ;  and  as  they 
sat,  they  heard  a  bell  ringing  before  a  corpse  that  was  being 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  41 

Biforn  a  cors,  was  caried  to  his  grave ; 

That  oon  of  hem  gan  callen  to  his  knave,  20 

"Go  bet,"  quod  he,  "and  axe  redily, 

What  cors  is  this  that  passeth  heer  forby ; 

And  look  that  thou  reporte  his  name  wel." 

"Sir,"  quod  the  boy,  "it  nedeth  never-a-del. 
It  was  me  told,  er  ye  cam  heer,  two  houres ;  •     25 

He  was,  pardee,  an  old  felawe  of  youres ; 
And  sodeynly  he  was  y-slayn  to-night, 
For-dronke,  as  he  sat  on  his  bench  upright ; 
Ther  cam  a  privee  theef,  men  clepeth  Deeth, 
That  in  this  contree  al  the  peple  sleeth,  30 

And  with  his  spere  he  smoot  his  herte  a-two. 
And  wente  his  way  with-outen  wordes  mo. 
He  hath  a  thousand  slayn  this  pestilence : 
And,  maister,  er  ye  come  in  his  presence, 
Me  thinketh  that  it  were  necessarie  35 

For  to  be  war  of  swich  an  adversarie  : 
Beth  redy  for  to  mete  him  evermore. 
Thus  taughte  me  my  dame,  I  sey  na-more." 

carried  to  the  grave.  One  of  them  called  to  his  page,  "Go 
quickly,"  said  he,  "and  ask  at  once  whose  body  is  passing 
by ;   and  be  sure  you  report  his  name  correctly." 

"Sir,"  said  this  boy,  "that's  not  at  all  necessary.  It 
was  told  me  two  hours  before  you  came  here ;  he  was,  in  faith, 
an  old  companion  of  yours,  and  he  was  suddenly  slain  to-? 
night,  dead  drunk,  as  he  sat  straight  up  on  his  bench.  There 
came  a  secret  thief,  whom  men  call  Death,  who  slays  all  the 
people  in  this  country ;  and  with  his  spear  he  broke  his  heart 
in  two,  and  went  his  way  without  more  words.  He  hath 
slain  a  thousand  during  this  plague;  and  master,  before 
you  come  into  his  presence,  it  seems  to  me  necessary  that 
you  be  cautious  of  such  an  adversary;  be  always  ready  to 
meet  him.  So  my  mother  taught  me;  that's  all  I  have  to 
say." 


42  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"By  seinte  Marie,"  said  this  taverner, 

40  "The  child  seith  sooth,  for  he  hath  slayn  this  yeer, 

Henne  over  a  myle,  with-in  a  greet  village, 
Both  man  and  womman,  child  and  hyne,  and  page. 
I  trowe  his  habitacioun  be  there ; 
To  been  avysed  greet  wisdom  it  were, 

45  Er  that  he  dide  a  man  a  dishonour." 

"Ye,  goddes  armes,"  quod  this  ryotour, 
"Is  it  swich  peril  with  him  for  to  mete? 
I  shal  him  seke  by  wey  and  eke  by  strete, 
I  make  avow  to  Goddes  digne  bones  I 

50  Herkneth,  felawes,  we  three  been  al  ones; 

Lat  ech  of  us  hold  up  his  hond  til  other. 
And  ech  of  us  bicomen  otheres  brother, 
And  we  wol  sleen  this  false  traytour  Deeth ; 
He  shal  be  slayn,  which  that  so  many  sleeth, 

55  By  Goddes  dignitee,  er  it  be  night." 

Togidres  han  thise  three  her  trouthes  plight, 
To  live  and  dyen  ech  of  hem,  for  other, 
As  though  he  were  his  owene  y-boren  brother. 


"By  Saint  Mary,"  said  this  taverner,  "the  child  speaks 
truth ;  for  he  hath  slain  this  year,  in  a  large  village  about  a 
mile  hence,  both  man  and  woman,  child  and  servant,  and 
page.  I  believe  his  habitation  is  there;  it  would  be  great 
wisdom  to  be  well  advised  before  he  caused  a  man  trouble." 
I  "By  God's  arms,"  said  this  rioter,  "is  it  so  perilous  to 
meet  him  ?  I  shall  seek  him  in  the  highways  and  the  byways, 
I  hereby  vow  to  God's  noble  bones !  Listen,  comrades,  we 
three  are  all  of  one  mind ;  let  each  of  us  hold  up  his  hand  to 
the  other,  and  each  of  us  become  the  other's  brother,  and  we 
will  slay  this  false  traitor  Death,  he  who  slays  so  many  shall 
himself  be  slain,  by  God's  dignity,  before  night." 

These  three  pledged  their  words  to  live  and  die  for  each 
other  as  though  he  were  his  own  blood  brother.     They  started 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  43 

And  up  they  sterte  al  dronken,  in  this  rage, 

And  forth  they  goon  towardes  that  village,  60 

Of  which  the  taverner  had  spoke  biforn, 

And  many  a  grisly  ooth  than  han  they  sworn, 

And  Cristes  blessed  body  they  to-rente  — 

"Deeth  shal  be  deed,  if  that  they  may  him  hente." 

Whan  they  han  goon  nat  fully  half  a  myle,  65 

Right  as  they  wolde  han  troden  over  a  style. 
An  old  man  and  a  povre  .with  hem  mette. 
This  olde  man  ful  mekely  hem  grette. 
And  seyde  thus,  "Now  lordes,  God  you  see !" 

The  proudest  of  thise  ryotoures  three  70 

Answerde  agayn,  "What?  carl,  with  sory  grace. 
Why  artow  al  f orwrapped  save  thy  face  ? 
Why  livestow  so  longe  in  so  greet  age?" 

This  olde  man  gan  loke  in  his  visage, 
And  seyde  thus,  "For  I  ne  can  nat  finde  75 

A  man,  though  that  I  walked  in-to  Inde, 
Neither  in  citee  nor  in  no  village, 
That  wolde  chaunge  his  youthe  for  myn  age ; 


up  all  drunk  in  this  rage,  and  went  forth  towards  the  village 
of  which  the  taverner  spoke  before ;  and  they  swore  many 
a  terrible  oath,  and  tore  Christ's  blessed  body  to  pieces  — 
"Death  shall  be  dead  if  they  can  catch  him." 

When  they  had  gone  not  quite  a  mile,  just  as  they  were 
going  to  get  over  a  stile,  a  poor  old  man  met  them.  This 
old  man  greeted  them  very  meekly,  and  said,  "God  save 
you,  sirs ! " 

The  proudest  of  these  rioters  answered,  —  "You  churl 
—  curse  you  !  why  are  you  all  wrapped  up  except  your  face  ? 
why  do  you  live  so  long  at  so  great  an  age  ?  " 

This  old  man  looked  in  his  face,  and  said,  "Because  even 
if  I  walk  to  India  I  can  not  find  in  city  or  village  a  man  who  is 
willing  to  exchange  his  youth  for  my  old  age ;  and  therefore 


44  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  therefore  moot  I  han  myn  age  stille, 

80  As  longe  time  as  it  is  Goddes  wille. 

"Ne  deeth,  alias  !  ne  wol  nat  han  my  lyf ; 
Thus  walk  I,  lyk  a  restelees  caityf, 
And  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  modres  gate, 
I  knokke  with  my  staf,  bothe  erly  and  late, 

85  And  seye,  'Leve  moder,  leet  me  in  ! 

Lo,  how  I  vanish,  flesh,  and  blood,  and  skin  ! 
Alias  !  whan  shul  my  bones  been  at  reste  ? 
Moder,  with  yow  wolde  I  chaunge  my  cheste, 
That  in  my  chambre  longe  tyme  hath  be, 

90  Ye  !  for  an  heyre  clout  to  wrappe  me  ! ' 

But  yet  to  me  she  wol  nat  do  that  grace. 
For  which  ful  pale  and  welked  is  my  face. 

"But,  sirs,  to  yow  it  is  no  curteisye 
To  speken  to  an  old  man  vileinye, 

96  But  he  trespasse  in  worde,  or  elles  in  dede. 

In  holy  writ  ye  may  your-self  wel  rede, 
'  Agayns  an  old  man,  hoor  upon  his  heed, 
Ye  sholde  aryse ; '  wherfor  I  yeve  yow  reed, 

I  must  keep  my  age  as  long  as  it  is  God's  will. 

"  Even  death,  alas  !  will  not  have  my  life ;  so  I  keep  going, 
like  a  restless  wretch,  and  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  mother's 
gate,  I  knock  with  my  staff  early  and  late,  saying,  'Dear 
mother  [Earth],  let  me  in  !  Lo,  how  I  waste  away,  —  flesh, 
and  blood,  and  skin  !  Alas  !  when  shall  my  bones  be  at  rest  ? 
Mother,  I'd  like  to  exchange  the  chest  that  hath  been  a 
long  time  in  my  chamber  for  a  hairy  shroud  to  wrap  me  in  ! ' 
But  yet  she  will  not  do  me  that  favor,  because  of  which  my 
face  is  very  pale  and  withered. 

"But,  sirs,  it  is  not  courteous  of  you  to  speak  rudely  to 
an  old  man,  unless  he  do  you  wrong  in  word  or  deed.  In 
Holy  Writ  you  yourselves  may  read,  '  In  the  presence  of  an 
old  man,  hoary-headed,  you  should  rise ; '  wherefore  I  counsel 
you,  do  no  harm  to  an  old  man  now,  any  more  than  you  would 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  4^ 

Ne  dooth  un-to  an  old  man  noon  harm  now, 

Na-more  than  ye  wolde  men  dide  to  yow  100 

In  age,  if  that  ye  so  longe  abyde ; 

And  God  be  with  yow,  wher  ye  go  or  ryde. 

I  moot  go  thider  as  I  have  to  go." 

"Nay,  olde  cherl,  by  God,  thou  shalt  nat  so," 
Seyde  tliis  other  hasardour  anon ;  106 

"Thou  partest  nat  so  Ughtly,  by  Seint  John  ! 
Thou  spak  right  now  of  thilke  traitour  Deeth, 
That  in  this  contree  alle  oiu-  frendes  sleeth. 
Have  heer  my  trouthe,  as  thou  art  his  aspye, 
Tel  wher  he  is,  or  thou  shalt  it  abye,  110 

By  God,  and  by  the  holy  sacrament ! 
For  soothly  thou  art  oon  of  his  assent. 
To  sleen  us  yonge  folk,  thou  false  theef  I" 

"Now,  sirs,"  quod  he,  "if  that  yow  be  so  leef 
To  finde  Deeth,  turne  up  this  croked  wey,  115 

For  in  that  grove  I  lafte  him,  by  my  fey, 
Under  a  tree,  and  ther  he  wol  abyde ; 
Nat  for  your  boost  he  wol  hym  no-thing  hyde. 


that  men  do  to  you  in  old  age,  if  you  linger  so  long;  and 
God  be  with  you,  wherever  you  go.     I  must  be  going." 

"Nay,  old  churl,  by  God,  thou  shalt  not  do  so,"  said  the 
second  gambler ;  "  thou  shalt  not  go  so  easily,  by  Saint  John  ! 
thou  didst  speak  just  now  of  that  traitor  Death,  who  slays 
all  our  friends  in  this  country.  Have  here  my  true  word : 
as  thou  art  his  spy,  tell  me  where  he  is,  or  thou  shalt  pay 
dearly  for  it,  by  God,  and  by  the  holy  sacrament !  For  truly 
thou  art  one  of  his  conspiracy  to  slay  us  young  people,  thou 
false  thief!" 

"Now,  sirs,"  quoth  he,  "if  you  are  so  anxious  to  find 
Death,  turn  up  this  crooked  road ;  for  upon  my  word,  I  left 
him  under  a  tree  in  that  grove,  and  there  he  is  going  to  stay ; 
he  will  not  hide  anything  because  of  your  boasting.     See 


46  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

See  ye  that  ook  ?  right  ther  ye  shal  him  finde. 

120  God  save  yow,  that  boghte  agayn  mankinde, 

And  yow  amende  !"  —  Thus  seyde  this  olde  man. 
And  everich  of  thise  ryotoxores  ran, 
Til  he  cam  to  that  tree,  and  ther  they  founde 
Of  florins  fyne  of  golde  y-coined  rounde 

126  Wei  ny  an  eighte  busshels,  as  hem  thoughte. 

No  lenger  thanne  after  Deeth  they  soughte. 
But  ech  of  hem  so  glad  was  of  that  sighte. 
For  that  the  florins  been  so  faire  and  brighte. 
That  doun  they  sette  hem  by  this  precious  hord. 

130  The  worste  of  hem  he  spake  the  firste  word. 

"Brethren,"  quod  he,  "tak  kepe  what  I  seye; 
My  wit  is  greet,  though  that  I  bourde  and  pleye. 
This  tresor  hath  fortune  un-to  us  yiven, 
In  mirthe  and  jolitee  our  lyf  to  liven, 

135  And  lightly  as  it  comth,  so  wol  we  spende. 

Ey  I     Goddes  precious  dignitee  !  who  wende 
To-day,  that  we  sholde  han  so  fair  a  grace  ? 
But  mighte  this  gold  be  caried  fro  this  place 

that  oak?  right  there  will  you  find  him.  May  God,  who 
redeemed  mankind,  preserve  you  and  reform  you  ! "  —  Thus 
spoke  the  old  man.  So  each  of  these  rioters  ran  till  he  came 
to  the  tree;  and  there  they  found  nearly  eight  bushels, 
as  they  guessed,  of  fine,  round  gold  florins.  No  longer  did 
they  seek  Death,  but  each  of  them  was  so  glad  at  the  sight 
(for  each  of  the  florins  was  so  bright  and  beautiful)  that 
they  sat  down  by  the  precious  hoard.  The  worst  of  them 
spoke  first. 

"Brethren,"  said  he,  "take  heed  of  what  I  say;  I  have  a 
lot  of  sense,  although  I  jest  and  trifle.  Fortune  hath  given 
us  this  treasure  in  order  that  we  may  live  a  jolly,  mirthful 
life ;  and  let  us  spend  it  as  freely  as  it  has  come.  Eh !  God's 
precious  dignity !  who  would  have  thought  this  morning 
that  we  should  be  so  lucky  ?     But  if  this  gold  could  be  carried 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  47 

Hoom  to  myn  hous,  or  elles  un-to  youres  — 

For  wel  ye  woot  that  al  this  gold  is  oures  —  140 

Than  were  we  in  heigh  feUcitee. 

But  trewely,  by  daye  it  may  nat  be ; 

Men  wolde  seyn  that  we  were  theves  stronge, 

And  for  our  owene  tresor  doon  us  honge. 

This  tresor  moste  y-caried  be  by  nighte  145 

As  wysly  and  as  slyly  as  it  mighte. 

Wherfore  I  rede  that  cut  among  us  alle 

Be  drawe,  and  lat  see  wher  the  cut  wol  f alle ; 

And  he  that  hath  the  cut  with  herte  blythe 

Shal  renne  to  the  toime,  and  that  full  swythe,  160 

And  bring  us  breed  and  wyn  ful  prively. 

And  two  of  us  shal  kepen  subtilly 

This  tresor  wel ;  and,  if  he  wol  nat  tarie, 

Whan  it  is  night,  we  wol  this  tresor  carie 

By  oon  assent,  wher-as  us  thinketh  best."  166 

That  oon  of  hem  the  cut  broughte  in  his  fest, 

And  bad  hem  drawe,  and  loke  wher  it  wol  f  alle ; 

And  it  fil  on  the  yongeste  of  hem  alle ; 


from  here  to  my  house,  or  else  to  yours  —  for  you  know  well 
that  all  this  gold  is  ours  —  then  we  should  be  in  great  felicity. 
But  truly,  it  can't  be  done  by  day;  people  would  say  that 
we  were  highwaymen,  and  would  have  us  hanged  because  of 
our  own  treasure.  It  must  be  carried  off  at  night,  with  as 
much  thought  and  care  as  possible.  Therefore  I  suggest 
that  we  all  draw  lots,  and  let  us  see  where  the  lot  will  fall ; 
and  the  one  to  whom  the  lot  falls  shall  go  blithely  and 
quickly  to  town,  and  bring  us  bread  and  wine  secretly. 
And  two  of  us  will  take  good  care  of  the  treasure;  and  if 
the  other  does  not  waste  time,  we  will  take  the  gold  to- 
night by  agreement  wherever  seems  best."  One  of  them 
held  the  straws  in  his  hand,  and  bade  them  draw,  and  see 
how  it  would  come  out ;  and  it  fell  to  the  youngest  of  them. 


48  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  forth  toward  the  toun  he  wente  anon. 

160  And  al-so  sone  as  that  he  was  gon, 

That  oon  of  hem  spak  thus  un-to  that  other, 
"Thou  knowest  wel  thou  art  my  sworne  brother, 
Thy  profit  wol  I  telle  thee  anon. 
Thou  woost  wel  that  our  f  elawe  is  agon ; 

165  And  heer  is  gold,  and  that  ful  greet  plentee, 

That  shal  departed  been  among  us  three. 
But  natheles,  if  I  can  shape  it  so 
That  it  departed  were  among  us  two, 
Hadde  I  nat  doon  a  f  reendes  torn  to  thee  ?  " 

170  That  other  answerde,  "I  noot  how  that  may  be; 

He  woot  how  that  the  gold  is  with  us  tweye. 
What  shal  we  doon,  what  shal  we  to  him  seye  ? " 

"Shal  it  be  conseil?"  seyde  the  firste  shrewe, 
"And  I  shal  tellen  thee,  in  wordes  fewe, 

175  What  we  shal  doon,  and  bring  it  wel  aboute." 

"I  graunte,"  quod  that  other,  "out  of  doute, 


And  immediately  he  set  out  for  town. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  one  said  to  the  other :  "  Thou 
knowest  well  thou  art  my  sworn  brother ;  I  am  going  to  tell 
thee  something  now  for  thy  profit.  Thou  knowest  well 
that  our  companion  is  gone,  and  here  is  plenty  of  gold  that 
is  to  be  divided  among  us  three.  Nevertheless  if  I  can  man- 
age it  so  that  it  be  divided  between  us  two,  would  I  be  doing 
thee  a  friend's  turn?" 

The  other  answered,  "I  don't  know  how  that  can  be  done ; 
he  knows  that  we  two  have  the  gold;  what  shall  we  do, 
what  shall  we  say  to  him  ?" 

"May  it  be  a  secret?"  said  the  first  scoundrel.  "If  so, 
I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  what  we  shall  do,  and  I  will 
bring  it  about." 

"I  agree,"  said  the  other,  "without  hesitation,  that,  on  my 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  49 

That,  by  my  trouthe,  I  wol  thee  nat  biwreye." 

"Now,"  quod  the  firste,  "thou  woost  wel  we  be  tweye, 

And  two  of  us  shul  strenger  be  than  oon. 

Look  whan  that  he  is  set,  and  right  anoon  180 

Arys,  as  though  thou  woldest  with  him  pleye ; 

And  I  shal  ryve  him  thvu-gh  the  sydes  tweye 

Whyl  that  thou  strogelest  with  him  as  in  game ; 

And  with  thy  dagger  look  thou  do  the  same ; 

And  than  shal  al  this  gold  departed  be,  186 

My  dere  freend,  bitwixen  me  and  thee ; 

Than  may  we  both  our  lustes  al  f  ulfille. 

And  pleye  at  dees  right  at  our  owene  wille." 

And  thus  acorded  been  thise  shrewes  tweye 

To  sleen  the  thridde,  as  ye  han  herd  me  seye.  190 

This  yongest,  which  that  wente  un-to  the  toim, 

Ful  ofte  in  herte  he  rolleth  up  and  doun 

The  beautee  of  thise  florins  newe  and  brighte. 

"O  lord  !"  quod  he,  "if  so  were  that  I  mighte 

Have  al  this  tresor  to  my-self  allone,  195 

Ther  is  no  man  that  liveth  under  the  trone 


word,  I  won't  betray  you." 

"Now,"  said  the  first,  "thou  knowest  that  we  are  two, 
and  two  are  stronger  than  one.  As  soon  as  he  sits  down, 
get  up,  as  if  thou  wouldst  fooF  with  him ;  then  I  will  thrust 
my  dagger  through  his  sides  while  thou  strugglest  with  him 
as  if  in  fun,  and  do  thou  the  same  with  thy  dagger.  Then, 
my  dear  friend,  all  this  gold  shall  be  divided  between  thee 
and  me;  then  may  we  satisfy  all  our  desires,  and  play  at 
dice  whenever  we  choose."  Thus  these  two  villains  agreed, 
as  you  have  heard,  to  slay  the  third. 

The  youngest,  the  one  who  went  to  town,  often  he  ponders 
the  beauty  of  the  bright  new  florins.  "Oh,  Lord,"  said  he, 
"if  only  I  might  have  all  this  treasure  to  myself  alone,  no 
man  living  under  the  throne  of  God  would  live  as  merrily 


50  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Of  God,  that  sholde  live  so  mery  as  I !" 

And  atte  laste  the  feend,  our  enemy, 

Putte  in  his  thought  that  he  shold  poyson  beye, 

200  With  which  he  mighte  sleen  his  felawes  tweye ; 

For-why  the  feend  fond  him  in  swich  lyvinge, 
That  he  had  leve  him  to  sorwe  bringe. 
For  this  was  outrely  his  fulle  entente 
To  sleen  hem  bothe,  and  never  to  repente. 

205  And  forth  he  gooth,  no  lenger  wolde  he  tarie. 

Into  the  toun,  un-to  a  pothecarie, 
And  preyed  him,  that  he  him  wolde  selle 
Some  poyson,  that  he  mighte  his  rattes  quelle ; 
And  eek  ther  was  a  polcat  in  his  hawe, 

210  That,  as  he  seyde,  his  capouns  hadde  y-slawe. 

And  fayn  he  wolde  wreke  him,  if  he  mighte, 
On  vermin,  that  destroyed  him  by  nighte. 

The  pothecarie  answerde,  "And  thou  shalt  have 
A  thing  that,  al-so  God  my  soule  save, 

215  In  al  this  world  ther  nis  no  creature, 

That  ete  or  dronke  hath  of  this  confiture 
Noght  but  the  mountance  of  a  corn  of  whete. 
That  he  ne  shal  his  lyf  anon  f  orlete ; 

as  I ! "  By  and  by  the  fiend,  our  enemy,  put  it  into  his 
thought  to  buy  poison,  with  which  he  might  slay  his  two 
companions ;  because  the  fiend  found  him  leading  such  a  life 
that  he  had  permission  to  bring  him  to  sorrow,  for  his  settled 
intention  was  to  slay  them  both  and  never  to  repent.  Forth 
he  went  —  he  would  wait  no  longer  —  to  an  apothecary 
in  the  town,  and  asked  for  some  poison  with  which  he  might 
kill  his  rats,  and  also  there  was  a  polecat  in  his  yard  that, 
as  he  said,  had  slain  his  capons,  and  he  wanted  vengeance, 
if  possible,  on  vermin  that  destroyed  his  property  by  night. 

The  apothecary  answered :  "  Thou  shalt  have  a  mixture 
that,  as  I  hope  God  may  save  my  soul,  in  all  the  world  no 
creature  may  eat  or  drink  of  it  —  even  a  bit  as  large  as  a 
grain  of  wheat  —  without  losing  his  life  right  away.     Yes, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  51 

Ye,  sterve  he  shal,  and  that  in  lasse  whyle 

Than  thou  wolt  goon  a  paas  nat  but  a  myle ;  220 

This  poyson  is  so  strong  and  violent." 

This  ciu-sed  man  hath  in  his  hond  y-hent 
This  poyson  in  a  box,  and  sith  he  ran 
In-to  the  nexte  strete,  un-to  a  man, 

And  borwed  of  him  large  hotels  three ;  225 

And  in  the  two  his  poyson  poured  he ; 
The  thridde  he  kepte  clene  for  his  drinke. 
For  al  the  night  he  shoop  him  for  to  swinke 
In  caryinge  of  the  gold  out  of  that  place. 
And  whan  this  ryotour,  with  sory  grace,  230 

Had  filled  with  wyn  his  grete  hotels  three. 
To  his  felawes  agayn  repaireth  he. 

What  nedeth  it  to  sermone  of  it  more  ? 
For  right  as  they  had  cast  his  deeth  bifore, 
Right  so  they  han  him  slayn,  and  that  anon.  235 

And  whan  that  this  was  doon,  thus  spak  that  oon, 
"Now  lat  us  sitte  and  drinke,  and  make  us  merie. 
And  afterward  we  wol  his  body  berie." 
And  with  that  word  it  happed  him,  par  cas. 
To  take  the  hotel  ther  the  poyson  was,  240 

he  will  die  in  less  time  than  thou  canst  travel  a  mile  at  a 
foot-pace,  the  poison  is  so  strong  and  violent." 

The  cursed  man  took  the  box  of  poison,  and  ran  to  a  man 
in  the  next  street,  and  borrowed  three  large  bottles  from  him ; 
in  two  he  poured  his  poison,  the  third  he  kept  clean  for  his  own 
use.  He  planned  to  spend  the  whole  night  in  carrying  the 
gold  out  of  the  place.  Now  when  this  rioter  (the  villain !) 
had  filled  his  three  large  bottles  with  wine,  he  again  repaired 
to  his  comrades. 

What's  the  use  of  preaching  any  more  ?  For  just  as  they 
planned,  they  slew  him  right  away.  When  this  was  done, 
one  said  :  "  Now  let  us  sit  dowji  and  drink  and  make  merry, 
and  then  we  will  bury  his  body."  With  that  word  he  hap- 
pened by  chance  to  take  up  the  bottle  containing  poison. 


62  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  drank,  and  yaf  his  felawe  drinke  also, 
For  which  anon  they  storven  bothe  two. 
But,  certes,  I  suppose  that  Avicen 
Wroot  never  in  no  canon,  ne  in  no  fen, 
245  Mo  wonder  signes  of  empoisoning 

Than  hadde  thise  wrecches  two,  er  hir  ending. 
Thus  ended  been  thise  homicydes  two. 
And  eek  the  false  empoysoner  also. 

Chaucers  Wordes  unto  Adam,  His  Owne  Scriveyn 

Adam  scriveyn,  if  ever  it  thee  bifalle 
Boece  or  Troilus  to  wry  ten  newe, 
Under  thy  lokkes  thou  most  have  the  scalle. 
But  after  my  making  thou  wryte  trewe. 
6  So  ofte  a  daye  I  mot  thy  werk  renewe, 

Hit  to  correcte  and  eek  to  rubbe  and  scrape ; 
And  al  is  thorow  thy  negligence  and  rape. 

and  drank,  and  gave  it  to  his  companion  to  drink,  as  a  result 
of  which  both  died. 

But  certainly  I  suppose  that  Avicenna  never  wrote  in  any 
book  or  in  any  chapter  more  notable  symptoms  of  poisoning 
than  these  wretches  had  before  their  ending.  Thus  died 
these  two  murderers,  and  also  the  false  poisoner. 

Adam  my  scribe,  if  it  befall  thee  to  copy  again  Boethius 
or  Troilus,  under  thy  locks  thou  oughtest  to  have  the  scab, 
unless  thou  copy  accurately  according  to  my  composition. 
So  often  I  have  to  go  over  thy  work,  to  correct  and  rub  and 
scratch  it ;  and  all  is  through  thy  negligence  and  haste. 

ENGLISH   AND    SCOTTISH   POPULAR   BALLADS 
Sir  Patrick  Spens 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toime. 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine  : 
"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor. 

To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?" 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS     53 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht,  6 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne : 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor. 

That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand,  10 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
■  Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauchM  he ; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red,  15 

The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid. 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir. 

To  sail  upon  the  se  !  20 

"Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 

Oiu"  guid  schip  sails  the  morne :" 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir. 

For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

"Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone,  26 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme. 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 

That  we  will  cum  to  harme." 

O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone ;  30 

Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 

Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand. 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence  36 

Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 


54  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair. 
Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
40  For  they'll  se  thame  na  mair. 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 


Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Hie  upon  Hielands 

And  low  upon  Tay 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Hade  out  on  a  day. 
5  Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he ; 
Hame  came  his  gude  horse. 

But  never  cam  he  I 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither 
10  Greeting  fu'  sair, 

And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he ; 
15  Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he  ! 

"My  meadow  lies  green. 
And  my  corn  is  unshorn ; 

My  barn  is  to  big, 
20  And  my  babie's  unborn." 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 
But  never  cam  he  I 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS     55 

Lord  Randal 

"O  where  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 

O  where  hae  ye  been,  my  handsome  young  man?" 

"I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon. 

For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

*' Where  gat  ye  your  dinner.  Lord  Randal,  my  son?  6 

Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  my  handsome  yoimg  man  ?  " 
"I  din'd  wi  my  true-love;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 
For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 

What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  "  10 

"I  gat  eels  boiled  in  broo;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon. 

For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  Lord  Randal,  my  son? 
What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my  handsome  young  man  ?  " 
"O  they  swelld  and  they  died;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon,  15 

For  I'm  weary  wi  hunting,  and  fain  wald  lie  down." 

"O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,  Lord  Randal,  my  son  ! 

O  I  fear  ye  are  poisond,  my  handsome  young  man  !" 

"O  yes  !  I  am  poisond ;  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 

For  I'm  sick  at  the  heart  and  I  fain  wald  Ue  down."  20 


Kemp  Owyne  ^ 

Her  mother  died  when  she  was  young. 

Which  gave  her  cause  to  make  great  moan ; 

Her  father  married  the  warst  woman 
That  ever  lived  in  Christendom. 

She  served  her  with  foot  and  hand. 
In  every  thing  that  she  could  dee. 

Till  once,  in  an  unlucky  time, 
She  threw  her  in  ower  Craigy's  sea. 


56  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Says,  "Lie  you  there,  dove  Isabel, 
10  And  all  my  sorrows  lie  with  thee ; 

Till  Kemp  Owyne  come  ower  the  sea. 

And  borrow  you  with  kisses  three 
Let  all  the  warld  do  what  they  will. 

Oh  borrowed  shall  you  never  be  I" 

15  Her  breath  grew  Strang,  her  hair  grew  lang. 

And  twisted  thrice  about  the  tree. 
And  all  the  people,  far  and  near. 

Thought  that  a  savage  beast  was  she. 

These  news  did  come  to  Kemp  Owyne, 
20  Where  he  lived,  far  beyond  the  sea; 

He  hasted  him  to  Craigy's  sea, 
And  on  the  savage  bteast  lookd  he. 

Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was  lang, 
And  twisted  was  about  the  tree, 
25  And  with  a  swing  she  came  about : 

"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with  me. 

"Here  is  a  royal  belt,"  she  cried, 

"That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea; 

And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 
30  Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be ; 

But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  vow  my  belt  your  death  shall  be." 

He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss. 
The  royal  belt  he  brought  him  wi ; 
35  Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was  lang. 

And  twisted  twice  about  the  tree. 

And  with  a  swing  she  came  about : 

"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with  me. 

"Here  is  a  royal  ring,"  she  said, 
40  "That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea; 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS     57 

And  while  your  finger  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be ; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  swear  my  ring  your  death  shall  be." 

He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss,  45 

The  royal  ring  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was  lang. 

And  twisted  ance  about  the  tree. 
And  Avith  a  swing  she  came  about : 

"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss  with  me.  60 

"Here  is  a  royal  brand,"  she  said, 

"That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea ; 
And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be ; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin,  56 

I  swear  my  brand  your  death  shall  be." 

He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss. 

The  royal  brand  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Her  breath  was  sweet,  her  hair  grew  short, 

And  twisted  nane  about  the  tree,  60 

And  smilingly  she  came  about, 

As  fair  a  woman  as  fair  could  be. 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 

Down  a  down  a  down  a  down 
Went  oer  yon  bank  of  broom 

Said  Robin  Hood  bold  to  Little  John, 
"We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound."  5 

Hey,  dowTi  a  doivn  a  down. 

"But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more, 

My  broad  arrows  will  not  flee ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below, 

Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me."  10 


58  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Now  Robin  he  is  to  fair  Kirkly  gone. 

As  fast  as  he  can  win ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear, 

He  was  taken  very  ill. 

15  And  when  he  came  to  fair  Kirkly-hall, 

He  knockd  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 
For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

"Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 
20  "And  drink  some  beer  with  me?" 

"No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink. 
Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 

"Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 
"Which  you  did  never  see, 
26  And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein. 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be." 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand. 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room, 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 
30  While  one  drop  of  blood  would  run  down. 

She  blooded  him  in  a  vein  of  the  arm, 

And  locked  him  up  in  the  room ; 
Then  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day. 

Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

36  He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  there, 

Thinking  for  to  get  down ; 
But  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 
He  could  not  get  him  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 
40  Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee ; 

He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth. 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS     59 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  a  tree, 
"I  fear  my  master  is  now  near  dead,  45 

He  blows  so  wearily." 

Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkly  is  gone. 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkly-hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three :  60 

Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to  see. 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee ; 
"A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John, 

"Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"What  is  that  boon,"  said  Robin  Hood,  65 

"Little  John,  [thou]  begs  of  me?" 
"It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirkly-hall, 

And  all  their  nunnery." 

"Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"That  boon  I'll  not  grant  thee ;  60 

I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life. 
Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

"I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  mine  end  shall  it  be ; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand,  65 

And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee. 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up. 

There  shall  my  grave  digged  be. 

"Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head. 

And  another  at  my  feet ;  70 

And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side. 

Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 


60  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

76  "Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 

With  a  green  sod  under  my  head ; 
That  they  may  say,  when  I  am  dead. 
Here  Hes  bold  Robin  Hood." 

These  words  they  readily  granted  him, 
80  Which  did  bold  Robin  please : 

And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Within  the  fair  Kirkleys. 

WILLIAM    CAXTON 
Preface  to  Translation  of  ^neid 

After  divers  work  made,  translated,  and  achieved,  having 
no  work  in  hand,  I  sitting  in  my  study  where  as  lay  many 
divers  pamphlets  and  books,  happened  that  to  my  hand 
came  a  little  book  in  French,  which  lately  was  translated  out 

5  of  Latin  by  some  noble  clerk  of  France,  which  book  is  named 
Mneidos,  made  in  Latin  by  that  noble  poet  and  great  clerk, 
Virgil.  Which  book  I  saw  over,  and  read  therein  how,  after 
the  general  destruction  of  the  great  Troy,  Aeneas  departed, 
bearing  his  old  father  Anchises  upon  his  shoulders,  his  little 

10  son  lulus  on  his  hand,  his  wife  with  much  other  people  follow- 
ing, and  how  he  shipped  and  departed,  with  all  the  history 
of  his  adventures  that  he  had  ere  he  came  to  the  achievement 
of  his  conquest  of  Italy,  as  all  along  shall  be  showed  in  this 
present  book.     In  which  book  I  had  great  pleasure  because 

15  of  the  fair  and  honest  terms  and  words  in  French ;  which  I 
never  saw  before  like,  nor  none  so  pleasant  nor  so  well 
ordered;  which  book  as  it  seemed  to  me  should  be  much 
requisite  to  noble  men  to  see,  as  well  for  the  eloquence  as  the 
histories. 

20  How  well  that  many  hundred  years  past  was  the  said  book 
of  Mneidos,  with  other  works,  made  and  learned  daily  in 
schools,  especially  in  Italy  and  other  places ;   which  history 


WILLIAM  CAXTON  61 

the  said  Virgil  made  in  metre.  And  when  I  had  advised  me 
in  this  said  book,  I  dehberated  and  concluded  to  translate 
it  into  English ;  and  forthwith  took  a  pen  and  ink  and  wrote  25 
a  leaf  or  twain,  which  I  oversaw  again  to  correct  it.  And 
when  I  saw  the  fair  and  strange  terms  therein,  I  doubted 
that  it  should  not  please  some  gentlemen  which  late  blamed 
me,  saying  that  in  my  translations  I  had  over  curious  terms, 
which  could  not  be  understood  of  common  people,  and  de-30 
sired  me  to  use  old  and  homely  terms  in  my  translations. 

And  fain  would  I  satisfy  every  man,  and  so  to  do  took  an 
old  book  and  read  therein,  and  certainly  the  English  was  so 
rude  and  broad  that  I  could  not  well  understand  it.  And 
also  my  Lord  Abbot  of  Westminster  did  lately  show  me  cer-  35 
tain  documents  written  in  old  English,  for  to  reduce  it  into 
our  English  now  used.  And  certainly  it  was  written  in  such 
wise  that  it  was  more  like  to  Dutch  than  English,  I  could 
not  reduce  nor  bring  it  to  be  understood.  And  certainly  our 
language  now  used  varieth  far  from  that  which  was  used  40 
and  spoken  when  I  was  bom.  For  we  Englishmen  are  born 
under  the  domination  of  the  moon,  which  is  never  steadfast 
but  ever  wavering,  waxing  one  season  and  waning  and 
decreasing  another  season. 

And  that  common  English  that  is  spoken  in  one  shire  45 
varieth  from  another,  insomuch  that  in  my  days  happened 
that  certain  merchants  were  in  a  ship  in  Thames  for  to  have 
sailed  over  the  sea  into  Zealand,  and  for  lack  of  wind  they 
tarried  at  Foreland,  and  went  to  land  for  to  refresh  them. 
And  one  of  them  named  Sheffield,  a  mercer,  came  into  a  50 
house  and  asked  for  meat,  and  especially  he  asked  after  eggs ; 
and  the  good  wife  answered  that  she  could  speak  no  French, 
and  the  merchant  was  angry,  for  he  also  could  speak  no 
French,  but  would  have  had  eggs,  and  she  understood  him 
not.     And  then  at  last  another  said,  that  he  would  have  55 
*'  eyren  " ;  then  the  good  wife  said  that  she  understood  him  well 


62  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Lo,  what  should  a  man  in  these  days  now  write,  eggs  or 
eyren?  Certainly  it  is  hard  to  please  every  man  because  of 
diversity  and  change  of  language.     For  in  these  days  every 

60  man  that  is  in  any  reputation  in  his  country  will  utter  his 
communication  and  matters  in  such  manners  and  terms  that 
few  men  shall  understand  them.  And  some  honest  and  great 
clerks  have  been  with  me  and  desired  me  to  write  the  most 
curious  terms  that  I  could  find ;    and  thus  between  plain, 

65  rude,  and  curious  I  stand  abashed.  But  in  my  judgment  the 
common  terms  that  are  daily  used  are  lighter  to  be  under- 
stood than  the  old  and  ancient  English.  And  forasmuch 
as  this  present  book  is  not  for  a  rude  uplandish  man  to 
labour  therein  nor  read  it,  but  only  for  a  clerk  and  a  noble 

70  gentleman  that  feeleth  and  understandeth  in  feats  of  arms, 
in  love,  and  in  noble  chivalry,  therefore  in  a  mean  between 
both  I  have  reduced  and  translated  this  said  book  into 
our  English,  not  over-rude  nor  curious,  but  in  such  terms 
as  shall  be  understood,   by  God's  grace,   according  to  my 

76  copy. 

SIR   THOMAS   MALORY 

How  Arthur  was  Chosen  King 
{From  Morte  d*  Arthur,  Book  I) 

So  in  the  greatest  church  of  London,  whether  it  were 
Paul's  or  not  the  French  book  maketh  no  mention,  all  the 
estates  were  long  or  day  in  the  church  for  to  pray.  And 
when  matins  and  the  first  mass  were  done,  there  was  seen  in 
5  the  churchyard,  against  the  high  altar,  a  great  stone  four 
square,  like  unto  a  marble  stone ;  and  in  midst  thereof  was 
like  an  anvil  of  steel  a  foot  on  high,  and  therein  stuck  a  fair 
sword  naked  by  the  point,  and  letters  there  were  written  in 
gold  about  the  sword  that  said  thus  :  —  "  Whoso  puUeth  out 
10  this  sword  of  this  stone  and  anvil,  is  rightwise  king  born  of  all 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  63 

England."    Then  the  people  marvelled,  and  told  it  to  the 
Archbishop. 

"I  command,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "that  ye  keep  you 
within  your  church  and  pray  unto  God  still,  that  no  man 
touch  the  sword  till  the  high  mass  be  all  done."  So  when  15 
all  masses  were  done  all  the  lords  went  to  behold  the  stone 
and  the  sword.  And  when  they  saw  the  scripture  some 
assayed,  such  as  would  have  been  king.  But  none  might 
stir  the  sword  nor  move  it.  "  He  is  not  here,"  said  the  Arch- 
bishop, "that  shall  achieve  the  sword,  but  doubt  not  God 20 
will  make  him  known.  But  this  is  my  counsel,"  said  the 
Archbishop,  "that  we  let  purvey  ten  knights,  men  of  good 
fame,  and  they  to  keep  this  sword."  So  it  was  ordained, 
and  then  there  was  made  a  cry,  that  every  man  should  assay 
that  would,  for  to  win  the  sword.  And  upon  New  Year's  25 
Day  the  barons  let  make  a  jousts  and  a  tournament,  that  all 
knights  that  would  joust  or  tourney  there  might  play,  and  all 
this  was  ordained  for  to  keep  the  lords  together  and  the 
commons,  for  the  Archbishop  trusted  that  God  would  make 
him  known  that  should  win  the  sword.  30 

So  upon  New  Year's  Day,  when  the  service  was  done,  the 
barons  rode  unto  the  field,  some  to  joust  and  some  to  tourney, 
and  so  it  happened  that  Sir  Ector,  that  had  great  livelihood 
about  London,  rode  unto  the  jousts,  and  with  him  rode  Sir 
Kay  his  son,  and  young  Arthur  that  was  his  nourished  brother ;  36 
and  Sir  Kay  was  made  knight  at  All  Hallowmass  afore.  So 
as  they  rode  to  the  jousts-ward.  Sir  Kay  lost  his  sword,  for  he 
had  left  it  at  his  father's  lodging,  and  so  he  prayed  young 
Arthur  for  to  ride  for  his  sword.  "I  will  well,"  said  Arthur, 
and  rode  fast  after  the  sword,  and  when  he  came  home,  the  40 
lady  and  all  were  out  to  see  the  jousting. 

Then  was  Arthur  wroth,  and  said  to  himself,  "I  will  ride 
to  the  churchyard,  and  take  the  sword  with  me  that  sticketh 
in  the  stone,  for  my  brother  Sir  Kay  shall  not  be  without  a 


64  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

45  sword  this  day."  So  when  he  came  to  the  churchyard,  Sir 
Arthur  ahghted  and  tied  his  horse  to  the  stile,  and  so  he 
went  to  the  tent,  and  found  no  knights  there,  for  they  were 
at  the  jousting.  And  so  he  handled  the  sword  by  the  handles, 
and  lightly  and  fiercely  pulled  it  out  of  the  stone,  and  took 
60  his  horse  and  rode  his  way  until  he  came  to  his  brother  Sir 
Kay,  and  delivered  him  the  sword.  And  as  soon  as  Sir  Kay 
saw  the  sword,  he  wist  well  it  was  the  sword  of  the  stone,  and 
so  he  rode  to  his  father  Sir  Ector,  and  said : 

"  Sir,  lo  here  is  the  sword  of  the  stone,  wherefore  I  must  be 

asking  of  this  land."     When  Sir  Ector  beheld  the  sword,  he 

returned  again  and  came  to  the  church,   and  there  they 

alighted  all  three,  and  went  into  the  church.     And  anon  he 

made  Sir  Kay  swear  upon  a  book  how  he  came  to  that  sword. 

"Sir,"  said    Sir  Kay,   "by  my  brother  Arthur,    for   he 

60  brought  it  to  me." 

"  How  gat  ye  this  sword  ?  "  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur. . 

"  Sir,  I  will  tell  you.     When  I  came  home  for  my  brother's 

sword,  I  found  nobody  at  home  to  deliver  me  his  sword ;  and 

so  I  thought  my  brother  Sir  Kay  should  not  be  swordless, 

65  and  so  I  came  hither  eagerly  and  pulled  it  out  of  the  stone 

without  any  pain." 

"Found  ye  any  knights  about  this  sword?"  said  Sir  Ector. 
"  Nay,"  said  Arthur. 

"Now,"  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur,  "I  understand  ye  must 
70  be  king  of  this  land." 

"Wherefore  I,"  said  Arthur,  "and  for  what  cause?" 

"Sir,"  said  Ector,  "for  God  will  have  it  so;    for  there 

should  never  man  have  drawn  out  this  sword,  but  he  that 

shall  be  right-wise  king  of  this  land.     Now  let  me  see  whether 

75  ye  can  put  the  sword  there  as  it  was,  and  pull  it  out  again." 

"That  is  no  mastery,"  said  Arthur,  and  so  he  put  it  in  the 

stone ;  wherewithal  Sir  Ector  assayed  to  pull  out  the  sword 

and  failed. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY  65 

"Now  assay,"  said  Sir  Ector  unto  Sir  Kay.     And  anon  he 
pulled  at  the  sword  with  all  his  might ;   but  it  would  not  be.  80 
"  Now  shall  ye  essay,"  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur. 

"I  will  well,"  said  Arthur,  and  pulled  it  out  easily.     And 
therewithal  Sir  Ector  knelt  down  to  the  earth,  and  Sir  Kay. 

And  so  anon  was  the  coronation  made.     And  there  was  he 
sworn  unto  his  lords  and  the  commons  for  to  be  a  true  king,  85 
to  stand  with  true  justice  from  thenceforth  the  days  of  this 
Ufe. 

Sm   THOMAS   WYATT 

How  the  Lover  Perisheth  in  his  Delight,  as  the  Fly  in  the  Fire 

Some  fowls  there  be  that  have  so  perfect  sight 

Against  the  sun  their  eyes  for  to  defend ; 

And  some,  because  the  light  doth  them  offend. 

Never  appear  but  in  the  dark  or  night. 

Other  rejoice,  to  see  the  fire  so  bright,  6 

And  ween  to  play  in  it,  as  they  pretend. 

But  find  contrary  of  it,  that  they  intend. 

Alas  I  of  that  sort  may  I  be  by  right ; 

For  to  withstand  her  look  I  am  not  able ; 

Yet  can  I  not  hide  me  in  no  dark  place ;  10 

So  followeth  me  remembrance  of  that  face, 

That  with  my  teary  eyen,  swollen,  and  unstable. 

My  destiny  to  behold  her  doth  me  lead  : 

And  yet  I  know  I  run  into  the  glead. 

HENRY   HOWARD,    EARL   OF    SURREY 
Description  of  Spring 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 


66  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

5  Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs ; 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale ; 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings ; 
10  The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings. 

Winter  is  worn,  that  was  the  flowers'  bale  : 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs  1 

The  Death  of  Priam 

(From  translation  of  the  Aeneid,  Book  II) 

Amid  the  court,  under  the  heaven,  all  bare, 
A  great  altar  there  stood,  by  which  there  grew 
An  old  laurel  tree,  bowing  thereunto, 
Which  with  his  shadow  did  embraqe  the  gods. 

6  Here  Hecuba,  with  her  young  daughters  all 
About  the  altar  swarmed  were  in  vain ; 
Like  doves,  that  flock  together  in  the  storm, 
The  statues  of  the  gods  embracing  fast. 
But  when  she  saw  Priam  had  taken  there 

10  His  armour,  like  as  though  he  had  been  young : 

"What  furious  thought  my  wretched  spouse,"  quod  she, 
"Did  move  thee  now  such  weapons  for  to  wield? 
Why  hastest  thou  ?     This  time  doth  not  require 
Such  succour,  ne  yet  such  defenders  now  : 

15  No,  though  Hector  my  son  were  here  again. 

Come  hither ;   this  altar  shall  save  us  all : 
Or  we  shall  die  together."     Thus  she  said. 
Wherewith  she  drew  him  back  to  her,  and  set 
The  aged  man  down  in  the  holy  seat. 

20  But  lo  !  Polites,  one  of  Priam's  sons, 

Escaped  from  the  slaughter  of  Pyrrhus, 
Comes  fleeing  through  the  weapons  of  his  foes, 
Searching,  all  wounded,  the  long  galleries 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY  67 

And  the  void  courts ;  whom  Pyrrhus  all  in  rage 

Followed  fast  to  reach  a  mortal  wound ;  26 

And  now  in  hand,  well  near  strikes  with  his  sp>ear, 

Who  fleeing  forth  till  he  came  now  in  sight 

Of  his  parents,  before  their  face  fell  down 

Yielding  the  ghost  with  flowing  streams  of  blood. 

Priamus  then,  although  he  were  half  dead,  30 

Might  not  keep  in  his  wrath,  nor  yet  his  words ; 

But  crieth  out :  "For  this  thy  wicked  work. 

And  boldness  eke  such  thing  to  enterprise, 

If  in  the  heavens  any  justice  be. 

That  of  such  things  takes  any  care  or  keep,  36 

According  thanks  the  gods  may  yield  to  thee ; 

And  send  thee  eke  thy  just  deserved  hire, 

That  made  me  see  the  slaughter  of  my  child. 

And  with  his  blood  defile  the  father's  face.  ' 

But  he,  by  whom  thou  feign'st  thyself  begot,  40 

Achilles,  was  to  Priam  not  so  stern. 

For,  lo  !  he  tend'ring  my  most  humble  suit. 

The  right,  and  faith,  my  Hector's  bloodless  corpse 

Render'd,  for  to  be  laid  in  sepulture ; 

And  sent  me  to  my  kingdom  home  again."  45 

Thus  said  the  aged  man,  and  therewithal. 
Forceless  he  cast  his  weak  unwieldy  dart : 
WTiich  repuls'd  from  the  brass  where  it  gave  dint. 
Without  sound,  hung  vainly  in  the  shield's  boss. 
Quod  Pyrrhus  :  "Then  thou  shalt  this  thing  rejwrt :  50 

On  message  to  Pelide  my  father  go ; 
Shew  unto  him  my  cruel  deed,  and  how 
Neoptolem  is  swerved  out  of  kind. 
Now  thou  shalt  die,"  quod  he.     And  with  that  word 
At  the  altar  him  trembling  'gan  he  draw  65 

Wallowing  through  the  bloodshed  of  his  son  : 
And  his  left  hand  all  clasped  in  his  hair. 
With  his  right  arm  drew  forth  his  shining  sword, 
Which  in  his  side  he  thrust  up  to  the  hilts. 


68  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

WILLIAM   TYNDALE 
The  Beatitudes 

1.  When  he  sawe  the  people,  he  went  up  into  a  mountayne ; 
and  when  he  was  set,  his  dieiples  cam  unto  hym. 

2.  And  he  openned  his  mought,  and  taught  them,  saynge, 

3.  Blessed  are  the  poore  in  sprete,  for  theirs  is  the  kyng- 
6  dome  off  heven. 

4.  Blessed  are  they  that  morne,  for  they  shalbe  comforted. 

5.  Blessed  are  the  meke,  for  they  shall  inheret  the  erth. 

6.  Blessed  are  they  which  honger  and  thurst  for  right- 
ewesnes,  for  they  shalbe  filled. 

10     7.   Blessed  are  the  mercifull,  for  they  shall  obteyne  mercy. 
8.   Blessed  are  the  pure  in  herte,  for  they  shall  se  God. 
'     9.   Blessed  are  the  maynteyners  of  peace,  for  they  shalbe 
called  the  chyldren  of  God. 

10.  Blessed  are  they  which  suffre  persecucion  for  right- 
15  ewesnes  sake,  for  theirs  ys  the  kyngdome  off  heven. 

1 1 .  Blessed  are  ye,  when  men  shall  revyle  you,  and  perse- 
cute you,  and  shall  falsly  say  all  manner  of  yvell  saynges 
agaynst  you  ffor  my  sake. 

12.  Reioyce,  and  be  glad,  for  greate  is  youre  rewarde  in 
20 heven;    for  so  persecuted  they  the  prophets  which  were 

before  youre  dayes. 

JOHN   LYLY 

Queen  Elizabeth 
{From  Euphues  and  His  England) 

This  queen  being  deceased,  Elizabeth,  being  of  the  age  of 

twenty-two  years,  of  more  beauty  than  honor,  and  yet  of 

more  honor  than  any  earthly  creature,  was  called  from  a 

prisoner  to  be  a  prince,  from  the  castle  to  the  crown,  from  the 

5  fear  of  losing  her  head,  to  be  supreme  head. 


JOHN  LYLY  69 

Touching  the  beauty  of  this  prince,  her  countenance,  her 
personage,  her  majesty,  I  cannot  think  that  it  may  be  suffi- 
ciently commended,  when  it  cannot  be  too  much  marveled  at ; 
so  that  I  am  constrained  to  say  as  Praxitiles  did,  when  he 
began  to  paint  Venus  and  her  son,  who  doubted  whether  the  10 
world  could  afford  colors  good  enough  for  two  such  fair  faces, 
and  I,  whether  our  tongue  can  yield  words  to  blaze  that 
beauty,  the  perfection  whereof  none  can  imagine;  which 
seeing  it  is  so,  I  must  do  like  those  that  want  a  clear  sight, 
who,  being  not  able  to  discern  the  sun  in  the  sky,  are  en- 15 
forced  to  behold  it  in  the  water.  Zeuxis,  having  before  him 
fifty  fair  virgins  of  Sparta  whereby  to  draw  one  amiable  Venus, 
said  that  fifty  more  fairer  than  those  could  not  minister 
sufficient  beauty  to  show  the  goddess  of  beauty;  therefore, 
being  in  despair  either  by  art  to  shadow  her,  or  by  imagina-  20 
tion  to  comprehend  her,  he  drew  in  a  table  a  fair  temple,  the 
gates  open,  and  Venus  going  in  so  as  nothing  could  be  per- 
ceived but  her  back,  wherein  he  used  such  cunning  that  Apelles 
himself,  seeing  this  work,  wished  that  Venus  would  turn  her 
face,  saying  that  if  it  were  in  all  parts  agreeable  to  the  back,  25 
he  would  become  apprentice  to  Zeuxis,  and  slave  to  Venus. 

In  the  like  manner  fareth  it  with  me,  for  having  all  the 
ladies  in  Italy,  more  than  fifty  hundred,  whereby  to  color 
Elizabeth,  I  must  say  with  Zeuxis  that  as  many  more  will 
not  suffice,  and  therefore  in  as  great  an  agony  paint  her  court  30 
with  her  back  towards  you,  for  that  I  cannot  by  art  portray 
her  beauty,  wherein,  though  I  want  the  skill  to  do  it  as  Zeuxis 
did,  yet  viewing  it  narrowly,  and  comparing  it  wisely,  you 
all  will  say  that  if  her  face  be  answerable  to  her  back,  you 
will  like  my  handicraft  and  become  her  handmaids.  In  the  36 
mean  season,  I  leave  you  gazing  until  she  turn  her  face,  im- 
agining her  to  be  such  a  one  as  nature  framed,  to  that  end 
that  no  art  should  imitate,  wherein  she  hath  proved  herself 
to  be  exquisite,  and  painters  to  be  apes. 


70  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

40  This  beautiful  mold  when  I  beheld  to  be  indued  with 
chastity,  temperance,  mildness,  and  all  other  good  gifts  of 
nature  (as  hereafter  shall  appear),  when  I  saw  her  tc^  surpass 
all  in  beauty,  and  yet  a  virgin,  to  excell  all  in  piety,  and  yet  a 
prince,  to  be  inferior  to  none  in  all  the  lineaments  of  the  body, 

45  and  yet  superior  to  every  one  in  all  gifts  of  the  mind,  I  began 
thus  to  pray,  that  as  she  hath  lived  forty  years  a  virgin  in 
great  majesty,  so  she  may  live  four  score  years  a  mother 
with  great  joy,  that  as  with  her  we  have  long  time  had  peace 
and  plenty,  so  by  her  we  may  ever  have  quietness  and  abun- 

60  dance,  wishing  this  even  from  the  bottom  of  a  heart  that 
wisheth  well  to  England,  though  feareth  ill,  that  either  the 
world  may  end  before  she  die,  or  she  live  to  see  her  children's 
children  in  the  world ;  otherwise  how  tickle  their  state  is 
that  now  triumph,  upon  what  a  twist  they  hang  that  now 

65  are  in  honor,  they  that  live  shall  see,  which  I  to  thin"k  on, 
sigh !  But  God  for  his  mercy's  sake,  Christ  for  his  merit's 
sake,  the  Holy  Ghost  for  his  name's  sake,  grant  to  that 
realm  comfort  without  any  ill  chance,  and  the  prince  they 
have  without  any  other  change,  that  the  longer  she  liveth  the 

60  sweeter  she  may  smell,  like  the  bird  Ibis,  that  she  may  be 
triumphant  in  victories  like  the  palm  tree,  fruitful  in  her 
age  like  the  vine,  in  all  ages  prosperous,  to  all  men  gracious, 
in  all  places  glorious,  so  that  there  be  no  end  of  her  praise 
until  the  end  of  all  flesh. 

65  Thus  did  I  often  talk  with  myself,  and  wish  with  mine 
whole  soul. 

But  whither  do  I  wade,  ladies,  as  one  forgetting  himself; 

thinking  to  sound  the  depth  of  her  virtues  with  a  few  fathoms, 

when  there  is  no  bottom ;   for  I  know  not  how  it  cometh  to 

70  pass  that,  being  in  this  labyrinth,  I  may  sooner  lose  myself 

than  find  the  end. 

Behold,  ladies,  in  this  glass  a  queen,  a  woman,  a  virgin, 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  71 

in  all  gifts  of  the  body,  in  all  graces  of  the  mind,  in  all  perfec- 
tion of  either,  so  far  to  excel  all  men,  that  I  know  not  whether 
I  may  think  the  place  too  bad  for  her  to  dwell  among  men.      75 

To  talk  of  other  things  in  that  court  were  to  bring  eggs 
after  apples,  or  after  the  setting  out  of  the  sun,  to  tell  a  tale 
of  a  shadow. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses ;  Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows ; 

Loses  them  too ;  then  down  he  throws  6 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win.  10 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

SIR   PHILIP    SIDNEY 

Sonnets 
{From  Astrophel  and  Stella) 
XV 

You  that  do  search  for  every  purling  spring 

Which  from  the  ribs  of  old  Parnassus  flows, 

And  every  flower,  not  sweet  perhaps,  which  grows 

Near  thereabouts,  into  your  poesie  wring ; 

Ye  that  do  dictionary's  method  bring  6 

Into  your  rimes,  running  in  rattling  rows ; 

You  that  poor  Petrarch's  long-deceased  woes 


72  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

With  new-born  sighs  and  denizen'd  wit  do  sing ; 
You  take  wrong  ways ;  those  far-fet  helps  be  such 
10  As  do  bewray  a  want  of  inward  touch, 

And  sure,  at  length  stol'n  goods  do  come  to  light : 
But  if,  both  for  your  love  and  skill,  your  name 
You  seek  to  nurse  at  fullest  breasts  of  Fame, 
Stella  behold,  and  then  begin  to  endite. 

XXXI 

15     With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  cUmb'st  the  skies  1 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 

What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ! 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
20     Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case ; 

I  read  it  in  thy  looks  :  thy  languished  grace 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit? 
25     Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 
Do  they  call  virtue,  there,  ungratefulness  ? 

Description  of  Arcadia 

(From  Arcadia,  Book  I,  Chap.  II) 

There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with 
stately  trees;  humble  valleys  whose  base  estate  seemed 
comforted  with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers ;  meadows 
enamelled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets 
5  which,  being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed 
so  to,  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  many  well-tuned  birds ; 
each  pasture  stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security, 
while  the  pretty  lambs,  with  bleating  oratory,  craved  the 
dams'  comfort;   here  a  shepherd's  boy  piping,  as  though  he 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  73 

should  never  be  old ;  there  a  young  shepherdess  knitting,  lo 
and  withal  singing ;  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted 
her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice- 
music.  As  for  the  houses  of  the  country  —  for  many  houses 
came  under  their  eye  —  they  were  all  scattered,  no  two  being 
one  by  the  other,  and  yet  not  so  far  off  as  that  it  barred  15 
mutual  succour;  a  show,  as  it  were,  of  an  accompanable 
solitariness,  and  of  a  civil  wildness. 

"I  pray  you,"  said  Musidorus,  then  first  unsealing  his 
long-silent  lips,  "what  countries  be  these  we  pass  through, 
which  are  so  diverse  in  show,  the  one  wanting  no  store,  the  20 
other  having  no  store  but  of  want  ? " 

"The  country,"  answered  Claius,  "where  you  were  cast 
ashore,  and  now  are  passed  through,  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor 
by  the  barrenness  of  the  soil  —  though  in  itself  not  passing 
fertile  —  as  by  a  civil  war,  which,  being  these  two  years  25 
within  the  bowels  of  that  estate,  between  the  gentlemen  and 
the  peasants  —  by  them  named  Helots  —  hath  in  this  sort, 
as  it  were,  disfigured  the  face  of  nature  and  made  it  so  un- 
hospitall  as  now  you  have  found  it ;  the  towns  neither  of  the 
one  side  nor  the  other  willingly  opening  their  gates  to  30 
strangers,  nor  strangers  willingly  entering,  for  fear  of  being 
mistaken. 

"  But  this  country,  where  now  you  set  your  foot,  is  Arcadia ; 
and  even  hard  by  is  the  house  of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead 
you :  this  country  being  thus  decked  with  peace  and  the  35 
child  of  peace,  good  husbandry.  These  houses  you  see  so 
scattered  are  of  men,  as  we  two  are,  that  live  upon  the  com- 
modity of  their  sheep,  and  therefore,  in  the  division  of  the 
Arcadian  estate,  are  termed  shepherds ;  a  happy  people, 
wanting  little,  because  they  desire  not  much."  40 


74  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

EDMUND   SPENSER 

Una  and  the  Lion 

{From  The  Faerie  Queene,  Book  I,  Canto  III) 

I 

Nought  is  there  under  heav'ns  wide  hoUownesse, 
That  moves  more  deare  compassion  of  mind. 
Then  beautie  brought  t'unworthie  wretchednesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  f reakes  unkind  : 
5         I,  whether  lately  through  her  brightnes  blynd, 
Or  through  alleageance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could  dy. 

II 

10         And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe. 

For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  frayle  eies  these  lines  with  teares  do  steepe,  ^ 
To  thinke  how  she  through  guyleful  handeling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a  king, 

15         Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight  was  f ayre. 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting. 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despayre, 
And  her  dew  loves  deryv'd  to  that  vile  witches  shayre. 

Ill 

Yet  she,  most  faithf uU  Ladie,  all  this  while 

20         Forsaken,  wofuU,  solitarie  mayd. 

Far  from  all  peoples  preace,   as  in  exile. 

In  wildernesse  and  wastfuU  deserts  strayd. 

To  seeke  her  knight ;  who,  subtily  betrayd 

Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  enchaunter  wrought, 

25         Had  her  abandond.     She,  of  nought  afFrayd, 

Through  woods  and  wastnes  wide  him  daily  sought ; 
Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  75 


One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrksome  way. 

From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  aUght ; 

And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay,  3q 

In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight : 

From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight. 

And  layd  her  stole  aside.     Her  angels  face 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright. 

And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place ;  35 

Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 


It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 

A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 

Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood. 

Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy,  40 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 

To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse ; 

But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny, 

His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 

And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forse.  45 

VI 

In  stead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet. 

And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong, 

As  he  her  WTonged  innocence  did  weet. 

O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  !  50 

Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission, 

Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 

Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion, 

And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

vn 

"The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field,"  55 

Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 


76  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate : 
QQ  But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord. 

How  does  he  find  in  eruell  hart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd  and  ever  most  adord 
As  the  God  of  my  life  ?  why  hath  he  me  abhord  ?  " 

vm 

Redounding  teares  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
65  Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour  wood ; 

And  sad  to  see  her  sorrowfuU  constraint. 

The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood ; 

With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 

At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 
70  Arose  the  virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood. 

And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got.  agayne. 

To  seeke  her  strayed  champion  if  she  might  attayne. 


The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 

75  Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfuU  mate 

,    Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard  : 

Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward, 
And  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent. 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard  : 

80  From  her  fayre  eyes  he  tooke  commandement, 

And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

Sonnets 

(From  Amoretti) 

xxxrv 

Like  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide 
By  conduct  of  some  star  doth  make  her  way, 
Whenas  a  storm  hath  dimmed  her  trusty  guide, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray ; 


EDMUND  SPENSER  77 

So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray  5 

Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  overcast, 

Do  wander  now  in  darkness  and  dismay. 

Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  placed. 

Yet  hope  I  well,  that  when  this  storm  is  past, 

My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  life,  10 

Will  shine  again,  and  look  on  me  at  last. 

With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief; 

Till  then  I  wander  careful,  comfortless. 

In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  pensiveness. 


Men  call  you  fair,  and  you  do  credit  it. 

For  that  yourself  ye  daily  such  do  see ;  '' 

But  the  true  fair,  that  is  the  gentle  wit 

And  virtuous  mind,  is  much  more  praised  of  me : 

For  all  the  rest,  however  fair  it  be,  6 

Shall  tiu"n  to  nought  and  lose  that  glorious  hue ; 

But  only  that  is  permanent  and  free 

From  frail  corruption  that  doth  flesh  ensue. 

That  is  true  beauty ;  that  doth  argue  you 

To  be  divine,  and  born  of  heavenly  seed ;  10 

Derived  from  that  fair  Spirit  from  whom  all  true 

And  perfect  beauty  did  at  first  proceed  : 

He  only  fair,  and  what  he  fair  hath  made ; 

All  other  fair,  like  flowers,  untimely  fade. 

{From  Prothalamion) 

At  length  they  all  to  mery  London  came. 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  nurse. 

That  to  me  gave  this  lifes  first  native  soiu-se : 

Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 

An  house  of  auncient  fame.  5 

There  when  they  came,  whereas  those  bricky  towres. 

The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  backe  doe  ryde. 

Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers. 


78  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

There  whylome  wont  the  Templer  Knights  to  byde, 

10  Till  they  decayd  through  pride  : 

Next  whereunto  there  standes  a  stately  place, 
Where  oft  I  gayned  giftes  and  goodly  grace 
Of  that  great  lord  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 
Whose  want  too  well  now  f eeles  my  freendles  case : 

15  But  ah  !  here  fits  not  well 

Olde  woes,  but  joyes  to  tell. 
Against  the  bridale  daye,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer, 
20  Greet  Englands  glory  and  the  worlds  wide  wonder. 

Whose  dreadfuU  name  late  through  all  Spaine  did  thunder, 

And  Hercules  two  pillors  standing  neere 

Did  make  to  quake  and  feare. 

Faire  branch  of  honor,  flower  of  chevalrie, 
25  That  fiUest  England  with  thy  triumphes  fame, 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie, 

And  endlesse  happinesse  of  thine  owne  name 

That  promiseth  the  same  : 

That  through  thy  prowesse  and  victorious  armes 
30  Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  forraine  harmes ; 

And  great  Elisaes  glorious  name  may  ring 

Through  al  the  world,  fil'd  with  thy  wide  alarmes. 

Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 

To  ages  following, 
35  Upon  the  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long  : 

Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing, 
Like  radiant  Hesper  when  his  golden  hayre 
In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fayre, 
40  Descended  to  the  rivers  open  vewing, 

With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  seene 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature. 


FRANCIS  BACON  79 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  queene, 

With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  natm-e,  45 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature : 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight, 

Which  decke  the  bauldricke  of  the  heavens  bright. 

They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  rivers  side. 

Received  those  two  faire  brides,  their  loves  delight,  so 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde, 

Each  one  did  make  his  bryde, 

Against  their  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long  : 

Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 


»  FRANCIS    BACON 

Essays 

V.  —  OF   ADVERSITY 

It  was  a  high  speech  of.  Seneca  (after  the  manner  of  the 
Stoics),  that  the  good  things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be 
wished;  but  the  good  things  that  belong  to  adversity  are  to  be 
admired.  Bona  rerum  secundarum  optahilia;  adversarum 
mirabilia.  Certainly  if  miracles  be  the  command  overs 
nature,  they  appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a  higher 
speech  of  his  than  the  other  (much  too  high  for  a  heathen). 
It  is  true  greatness  to  have  in  one  the  frailty  of  a  man,  and  the 
security  of  a  God.  Vere  magnum  habere  fragilitatem  hominis, 
securitatem  Dei.  This  would  have  done  better  in  poesy,  10 
where  transcendences  are  more  allowed.  And  the  poets 
indeed  have  been  busy  with  it ;  for  it  is  in  effect  the  thing 
which  is  figured  in  that  strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets, 
which  seemeth  not  to  be  without  mystery ;  nay,  and  to  have 
some  approach  to  the  state  of  a  Christian ;  that  Hercules,  15 
when  he  went  to  unbind  Prometheus  (by  whom  human  nature 
is  represented),  sailed  the  length  of  the  great  ocean  in  an  earthen 
pot  or  pitcher;    lively  describing  Christian  resolution,  that 


80  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

saileth  in  the  frail  bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves  of  the 

20  world. 

But  to  speak  in  a  mean.  The  virtue  of  prosperity  is  tem- 
perance; the  virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in 
morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue.  Prosperity  is  the 
blessing  of  the  Old  Testament ;    adversity  is  the  blessing  of 

25  the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benediction,  and  the 
clearer  revelation  of  God's  favor.  Yet  even  in  the  Old 
Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as 
many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols ;  and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  hath  laboured  more  in  describing  the  afflictions  of 

30  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  with- 
out many  fears  and  distastes ;  and  adversity  is  not  without 
comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  needleworks  and  embroid- 
eries, it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad 
and  solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy 

35 work  upon  a  lightsome  ground;  judge  therefore  of  the 
pleasure  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly 
virtue  is  like  precious  odours,  most  fragrant  when  they  are 
incensed  or  crushed ;  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice, 
but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 

VIII,  —  OF  MARRIAGE    AND    SINGLE    LIFE 

He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given  hostages  to 
fortune ;  for  they  are  impediments  to  great  enterprises,  either 
of  virtue  or  mischief.  Certainly  the  best  works,  and  of 
greatest  merit  for  the  public,  have  proceeded  from  the  un- 
5  married  or  childless  men,  which  both  in  affection  and  means 
have  married  and  endowed  the  public.  Yet  it  were  great 
reason  that  those  that  have  children  should  have  greatest 
care  of  future  times ;  unto  which  they  know  they  must 
transmit  their  dearest  pledges.  Some  there  are,  who  though 
10  they  lead  a  single  life,  yet  their  thoughts  do  end  with  them- 
selves, and  account  future  times  impertinences.     Nay,  there 


FRANCIS  BACON  81 

are  some  other  that  account  wife  and  children  but  as  bills  of 
charges. 

Nay   more,    there   are   some   foolish   rich   covetous  men 
that  take  a  pride  in  having  no  children,  because  they  may  15 
be  thought  so  much  the  richer.     For  perhaps  they  have 
heard  some  talk.  Such  a  one  is  a  great  rich  man,  and  another 
except  to  it.   Yea,  but  he  hath  a  great  charge  of  children;    as 
if  it  were  an  abatement  to  his  riches.     But  the  most  ordinary 
cause  of  a  single  life  is  liberty;    especially  in  certain  self- 20 
pleasing  and  humorous  minds,  which  are  so  sensible  of  every 
restraint,  as  they  will  go  near  to  think  their  girdles  and  garters 
to  be  bonds  and  shackles.     Unmarried  men  are  best  friends, 
best  masters,  best  servants,  but  not  always  best  subjects ; 
for  they  are  light  to  run  away ;   and  almost  all  fugitives  are  25 
of  that  condition.     A  single  life  doth  well  with  churchmen ; 
for  charity  will  hardly  water  the  ground  where  it  must  first 
fill  a  pool.     It  is  indifferent  for  judges  and  magistrates ;   for 
if  they  be  facile  and  corrupt,  you  shall  have  a  servant  five 
times  worse  than  a  wife.     For  soldiers,  I  find  the  generals  30 
commonly  in   their  hortatives  put  men  in  mind  of  their 
wives  and  children;    and  I  think  the  despising  of  marriage 
amongst  the  Turks  maketh  the  vulgar  soldier  more  base. 

Certainly  wife  and  children  are  a  kind  of  discipline  of 
humanity ;  and  single  men,  though  they  be  many  times  more  35 
charitable,  because  their  means  are  less  exhaust,  yet,  on  the 
other  side,  they  are  more  cruel  and  hard-hearted  (good  to 
make  severe  inquisitors),  because  their  tenderness  is  not  so 
oft  called  upon.  Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore 
constant,  are  commonly  loving  husbands ;  as  was  said  of  40 
Ulysses,  vetulam  svum  proetulit  immortalitati.  Chaste  women 
are  often  proud  and  forward,  as  presuming  upon  the  merit  of 
their  chastity.  It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds  both  of  chastity 
and  obedience  in  the  wife,  if  she  think  her  husband  wise; 
which  she  will  never  do  if  she  find  him  jealous.     Wives  are  45 


82  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

young  men's  mistresses;  companions  for  middle  age;  and 
old  men's  nurses.  So  as  a  man  may  have  a  quarrel  to  marry 
when  he  will.  But  yet  he  was  reputed  one  of  the  wise  men, 
that  made  answer  to  the  question,  when  a  man  should  marry  ? 

50  A  young  man  not  yet,  an  elder  man  not  at  all.  It  is  often  seen 
that  bad  husbands  have  very  good  wives ;  whether  it  be  that 
it  raiseth  the  price  of  their  husband's  kindness  when  it  comes, 
or  that  the  wives  take  a  pride  in  their  patience.  But  this 
never  fails,  if  the  bad  husbands  were  of  their  own  choosing, 

55  against  their  friends'  consent ;  for  then  they  will  be  sure  to 
make  good  their  own  folly. 

XXIII.  —  OF   WISDOM    FOR   A   MAN's    SELF 

An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but  it  is  a  shrewd  thing 
in  an  orchard  or  garden.  And  certainly  men  that  are  great 
lovers  of  themselves  waste  the  public.  Divide  with  reason 
between  self-love  and  society;  and  be  so  true  to  thyself  as 
5  thou  be  not  false  to  others,  specially  to  thy  king  and  country. 
It  is  a  poor  centre  of  a  man's  actions,  himself.  It  is  right 
earth.  For  that  only  stands  fast  upon  his  own  centre; 
whereas  all  things  that  have  affinity  with  the  heavens  move 
upon  the  centre  of  another,  which  they  benefit.     The  refer- 

10  ring  of  all  to  a  man's  self  is  more  tolerable  in  a  sovereign  prince ; 
because  themselves  are  not  only  themselves,  but  their  good 
and  evil  is  at  the  peril  of  the  public  fortune.  But  it  is  a 
desperate  evil  in  a  servant  to  a  prince,  or  a  citizen  in  a  republic. 
For  whatsoever  affairs  pass  Such  a  man's  hands,  he  crooketh 

15  them  to  his  own  ends ;   which  must  needs  be  often  eccentric 

to  the  ends  of  his  master  or  state.     Therefore  let  princes,  or 

states,  choose  such  servants  as  have  not  this  mark;   except 

they  mean  their  service  should  be  made  but  the  accessory. 

That  which  maketh  the  effect  more  pernicious  is  that  all 

20  proportion  is  lost.  It  were  disproportion  enough  for  the 
servant's  good  to  be  preferred  before  the  master's ;  but  yet 


FRANCIS  BACON  83 

it  is  a  greater  extreme,  when  a  little  good  of  the  servant  shall 
carry  things  against  a  great  good  of  the  master's.     And  yet 
that  is  the  case  of  bad  officers,  treasurers,   ambassadors, 
generals,  and  other  false  and  corrupt  servants ;   which  set  a  25 
bias  upon  their  bowl,  of  their  own  petty  ends  and  envies,  to 
the  overthrow  of  their  master's  great  and  important  affairs. 
And  for  the  most  part,  the  good  such  servants  receive  is 
after  the  model  of  their  own  fortune ;   but  the  hurt  they  sell 
for  that  good  is  after  the  model  of  their  master's  fortune.  30 
And  certainly  it  is  the  nature  of  extreme  self-lovers,  as  they 
will  set  an  house  on  fire,  and  it  were  but  to  roast  their  eggs ; 
and  yet  these  men  many  times  hold  credit  with  their  masters, 
because  their  study  is  but  to  please  them  and  profit  them- 
selves ;   and  for  either  respect  they  will  abandon  the  good  of  35 
their  affairs. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many  branches  thereof,  a 
depraved  thing.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  rats,  that  will  be  sure  to 
leave  a  house  somewhat  before  it  fall.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  the 
fox,  that  thrusts  out  the  badger,  who  digged  and  made  room  40 
for  him.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  crocodiles,  that  shed  tears 
when  they  would  devour.  But  that  which  is  specially  to 
be  noted  is,  that  those  which  (as  Cicero  says  of  Pompey)  are 
sui  amantes  sine  rivali,  are  many  times  unfortunate.  And 
whereas ,  they  have  all  their  time  sacrificed  to  themselves,  45 
they  become  in  the  end  themselves  sacrifices  to  the  incon- 
stancy of  fortune,  whose  wings  they  thought  by  their  self- 
wisdom  to  have  pinioned. 

XLII.  —  OF   YOUTH    AND   AGE 

A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he 
have  lost  no  time.  But  that  happeneth  rarely.  Generally, 
youth  i£  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so  wise  as  the  second. 
For  there  is  a  youth  in  thoughts  as  well  as  in  ages.  And 
yet  the  invention  of  young  men  is  more  lively  than  that  of  5 


84  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

old;  and  imaginations  stream  into  their  minds  better,  and, 
as  it  were,  more  divinely.  Natures  that  have  much  heat,  and 
great  and  violent  desires  and  perturbations,  are  not  ripe 
for  action  till  they  have  passed  the  meridian  of  their  years ; 

10  as  it  was  with  Julius  Caesar,  and  Septimius  Severus.  Of  the 
latter  of  whom  it  is  said,  Juventutem  egit  erroribus,  imo 
furoribus,  plenam.  And  yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor, 
almost,  of  all  the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may  do  well  in 
youth.     As  it  is  seen  in  Augustus  Csesar,  Cosmus,  Duke  of 

15  Florence,  Gaston  de  Fois,  and  others.  On  the  other  side, 
heat  and  vivacity  in  age  is  an  excellent  composition  for  busi- 
ness. 

Young  men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge ;   fitter  for 
execution   than   for  counsel;    and    fitter   for   new   projects 

20  than  for  settled  business.  For  the  experience  of  age,  in 
things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of  it,  directeth  them; 
but  in  new  things,  abuseth  them.  The  errors  of  young  men 
are  the  ruin  of  business ;  but  the  errors  of  aged  men  amount 
but  to  this,  that  more  might  have  been  done,   or  sooner. 

25  Young  men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage  of  actions,  embrace 
more  than  they  can  hold;  stir  more  than  they  can  quiet; 
fly  to  the  end,  without  consideration  of  the  means  and  de- 
grees ;  pursue  some  few  principles  which  they  have  chanced 
upon  absurdly ;   care  not  to  innovate,  which  draws  unknown 

30  inconveniences ;    use  extreme  remedies  at  first ;    and,  that 

which  doubleth  all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract 

them ;  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will  neither  stop  nor  turn. 

Men  of  age  object  too  much,  consult  too  long,  adventure 

too  little,  repent  too  soon,  and  seldom  drive  business  home 

35  to  the  full  period,  but  content  themselves  with  a  mediocrity 
of  success.  Certainly,  it  is  good  to  compound  employments 
of  both;  for  that  will  be  good  for  the  present,  because  the 
virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  defects  of  both;  and 
good  for  succession,  that  young  men  may  be  learners,  while 


FRANCIS  BACON  85 

men  in  age  are  actors ;  and,  lastly,  good  for  extern  accidents,  40 
because  authority  followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and  popu- 
larity youth.     But  for  the  moral  part,  perhaps  youth  will 
have  the  pre-eminence,  as  age  hath  for  the  politic.     A  certain 
rabbin,  upon  the  text.  Your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and 
your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams,  inferreth  that  young  men  45 
are  admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old,  because  vision  is  a  clearer 
revelation  than  a  dream.     And  certainly,  the  more  a  man 
drinketh  of  the  world,  the  more  it  intoxicateth ;  and  age  doth 
profit  rather  in  the  powers  of  understanding,  than  in  the 
virtues  of  the  will  and  affections.     There  be  some  have  an  50 
over-early  ripeness  in  their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes. 

These  are,  first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits,  the  edge  whereof 
is  soon  turned;  such  as  was  Hermogenes  the  rhetorician, 
whose  books  are  exceeding  subtle,  who  afterwards  waxed 
stupid.  A  second  sort  is  of  those  that  have  some  natural  dis-  55 
positions  which  have  better  grace  in  youth  than  in  age ;  such 
as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuriant  speech,  which  becomes  youth  well, 
but  not  age ;  so  TuUy  saith  of  Hortensius,  Idem  manebat,  neque 
idem  decebat.  The  third  is  of  such  as  take  too  high  a  strain 
at  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous  more  than  tract  of  years  60 
can  uphold.  As  was  Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in 
effect,  Ultima  primis  cedebant. 

L.  —  OF    STUDIES 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability. 
Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness  and  retiring ;  for 
ornament,  is  in  discourse ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment 
and  disposition  of  business.  For  expert  men  can  execute, 
and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the  general  5 
counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs,  come  best 
from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in 
studies  is  sloth;  to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament  is 
affectation;    to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules  is  the 


86  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

10  humour  of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfeci^ed 
by  experience;  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants, 
that  need  pruning  by  study ;  and  studies  themselves  do  give 
forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in 
by  experience. 

15  Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them, 
and  wise  men  use  them ;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use ; 
but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above  them,  won  by 
observation.  Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute ;  nor  to 
believe  and  take  for  granted ;  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse ; 

20  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and 
digested ;  that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read 
wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.     Some  books  also 

25  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others ; 
but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and 
the  meaner  sort  of  books ;  else  distilled  books  are  like  common 
distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man ; 
conference  a  ready  man ;  and  writing  an  exact  man. 

30  And  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a 
great  memory;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a 
present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much 
cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
make   men  wise;    poets  witty;    the   mathematics   subtle; 

35  natural  philosophy  deep ;  moral,  grave ;  logic  and  rhetoric 
able  to  contend.  Aheunt  studia  in  mores.  Nay,  there  is  no 
stond  or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but  may  be  wrought  out 
by  fit  studies ;  like  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appro- 
priate exercises.     Bowling  is  good  for  the  stone  and  reins; 

40 shooting  for  the  lungs  and  breast;  gentle  walking  for  the 
stomach ;  riding  for  the  head ;  and  the  like.  So  if  a  man's 
wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathematics;  for  in 
demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away  never  so  little,  he 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE  87 

must  begin  again.  If  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or 
find  differences,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen;  for  they  are 45 
cymini  sectores.  If  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and 
to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him 
study  the  lawyers'  cases.  So  every  defect  of  the  mind  may 
have  a  special  receipt. 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 

A  Boast  of  Tamburlaine 

(From  Tamburlaine  the  Great,  Part  I ;  Act  IV,  Scene  II) 

Now  clear  the  triple  region  of  the  air. 
And  let  the  Majesty  of  Heaven  behold 
Their  scourge  and  terror  tread  on  emperors. 
Smile  stars,  that  reigned  at  my  nativity, 
And  dim  the  brightness  of  yoiu"  neighbour  lamps  I  6 

Disdain  to  borrow  light  of  Cynthia  ! 
For  I,  the  chiefest  lamp  of  all  the  earth. 
First  rising  in  the  East  with  mild  aspect. 
But  fix&d  now  in  the  meridian  line, 

Will  send  up  fire  to  your  turning  spheres,  10 

And  cause  the  sun  to  borrow  light  of  you. 
My  sword  struck  fire  from  his  coat  of  steel 
Even  in  Bithynia,  when  I  took  this  Turk ; 
As  when  a  fiery  exhalation, 

Wrapt  in  the  bowels  of  a  freezing  cloud  16 

Fighting  for  passage,  makes  the  welkin  crack. 
And  casts  a  flash  of  lightning  to  the  earth : 
But  ere  I  march  to  wealthy  Persia, 
Or  leave  Damascus  and  the  Egyptian  fields, 
As  was  the  fame  of  Clymene's  brain-sick  son,  20 

That  almost  burnt  the  axle-tree  of  heaven. 
So  shall  our  swords,  our  lances,  and  our  shot 
Fill  all  the  air  with  fiery  meteors : 
Then  when  the  sky  shall  wax  as  red  as  blood 
It  shall  be  said  I  made  it  red  myself,  25 

To  make  me  think  of  nought  but  blood  and  war. 


88  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields. 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

6  And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks. 
By  shallow  rivers  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
10  And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 

A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
15  Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
20  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delights  each  May  morning ; 
K  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move. 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 

Songs  from  the  Plays 

{From  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona) 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 
The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
5  That  she  might  admired  be. 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE  89 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  Hves  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  bhndness, 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there.  IC 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling; 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring.  15 

(From  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream) 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier. 

Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere,  6 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  Queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ;  10 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

(From  As  You  Like  It) 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither  !  come  hither  I  come  hither  I  5 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


90  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
10  And  loves  to  Hve  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither  1  come  hither  1  come  hither  I 
Here  shall  he  see 
15  No  enemy 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

(From  Twelfth  Night) 
O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O,  stay  and  hear,  your  true  love's  coming. 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
5  Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting. 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?     'Tis  not  hereafter ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
10  In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty. 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

{From  Cymbeline) 
Hark,  hark  I  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
5  And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is. 
My  lady  sweet,  arise  1 
Arise,  arise ! 

(From  The  Tempest) 
Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry ; 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE  91 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Sonnets 


When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 

And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate. 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope,  6 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  wath  friends  possessed. 

Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state,  10 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

cxvi 
Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O,  no  1  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark  5   ■ 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wand'ring  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ;  10 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks. 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


92  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

BEN   JONSON 

Song  to  Celia 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
5  The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 
10  Not  so  much  honoring  thee 

As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 
And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
15  Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

To  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved,  Master  William  Shakespeare 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name. 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  raan  nor  muse  can  praise  too  much. 

■  5  'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light. 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 

10  The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance ; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed. 
Above  the  ill  fortime  of  them,  or  the  need. 


BEN  JONSON  93 

I  therefore  will  begin.     Soul  of  the  age,  15 

The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage, 

My  Shakespeare,  rise  I    I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room ; 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb,  20 

And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses  — 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses ; 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years,  25 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers. 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine. 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  would  not  seek  30 

For  names,  but  call  forth  thimdering  ^Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead. 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 

And  shake  a  stage ;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on,  35 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to  show 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Eiu-ope  homage  owe.  40 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm. 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs  45 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines. 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit. 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit ; 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please,  50 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 


94  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part ; 
55  For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil,  turn  the  same 
60  (And  himself  with  it)  that  he  thinks  to  frame. 

Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou ;  look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
65  Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed  lines, 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance. 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  I  what  a  sight  it  were 
70  To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear. 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  oiu"  James  ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there  I 
75  Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  poets,  and  with  rage 

Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night, 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 
Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 

Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air  :  ' 

5  Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  95 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dressed ; 

Nay  I  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said  10 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foUage,  and  be  seen  15 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  green. 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  yoirr  gown  or  hair  : 

Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  :  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept. 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept ; 

Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill  '  25 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying ; 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and,  coming,  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park  30 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees ;  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch ;  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove ;  35 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't  ? 

Come,  we'll  abroad ;  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May :  40 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


96  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
45  A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and  cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
60  And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
65  Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 

This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we're  not  a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime ; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
60  Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun ; 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 
65  So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
70  Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


How  Roses  Came  Red 

Roses  at  first  were  white. 
Till  they  could  not  agree. 

Whether  my  Sapho's  breast 
Or  they  more  white  should  be. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  97 

But  being  vanquished  quite, 

A  blush  their  cheeks  bespread ; 
Since  which,  believe  the  rest, 

The  roses  first  came  red. 


Cherry-Ripe 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 

Full  and  fair  ones ;  come  and  buy ; 

If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 

They  do  grow  ?     I  answer,  there. 

Where  my  Julia's  lips  do  smile ;  5 

There's  the  land,  or  cherry-isle, 

Whose  plantations  fully  show 

All  the  year  where  cherries  grow. 

To  the  Virgins,  To  Make  Much  of  Time 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may. 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun,  5 

The  higher  he's  a-getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first. 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ;  10 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 

Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time. 

And  while  ye  may  go  marry ; 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime,  15 

You  may  forever  tarry. 


98  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

To  Phillis 

Live,  live  with  me,  and  thou  shalt  see 
The  pleasures  I'll  prepare  for  thee  : 
What  sweets  the  country  can  afford 
Shall  bless  thy  bed,  and  bless  thy  board. 
5  ,       The  soft  sweet  moss  shall  be  thy  bed, 

With  crawling  woodbine  over-spread  : 
By  which  the  silver-shedding  streams 
Shall  gently  melt  thee  into  dreams. 
Thy  clothing  next,  shall  be  a  gown 

10  Made  of  the  fleeces'  purest  down. 

The  tongues  of  kids  shall  be  thy  meat ; 
Their  milk  thy  drink ;  and  thou  shalt  eat 
The  paste  of  filberts  for  thy  bread 
With  cream  of  cowslips  butterM  : 

15  Thy  feasting-table  shall  be  hills 

With  daisies  spread,  and  daffodils ; 
Where  thou  shalt  sit,  and  Red-breast  by, 
For  meat,  shall  give  thee  melody. 
I'll  give  thee  chains  and  carcanets 

20  Of  primroses  and  violets. 

A  bag  and  bottle  thou  shalt  have. 
That  richly  wrought,  and  this  as  brave ; 
So  that  as  either  shall  express 
The  wearer's  no  mean  shepherdess. 

25  At  shearing-times,  and  yearly  wakes. 

When  Themilis  his  pastime  makes. 
There  thou  shalt  be ;  and  be  the  wit, 
Nay  more,  the  feast,  and  grace  of  it. 
On  holydays,  when  virgins  meet 

30  To  dance  the  heys  with  nimble  feet. 

Thou  shalt  come  forth,  and  then  appear 
The  Queen  of  Roses  for  that  year. 
And  having  danced  ('bove  all  the  best) 
Carry  the  garland  from  the  rest. 

35  In  wicker-baskets  maids  shall  bring 


THOMAS  CAREW  99 

To  thee,  my  dearest  shepherdling, 

The  blushing  apple,  bashful  pear. 

And  shame-faced  plum,  all  simp'ring  there. 

Walk  in  the  groves,  and  thou  shalt  find 

The  name  of  Phillis  in  the  rind  40 

Of  every  straight  and  smooth-skin  tree ; 

Where  kissing  that,  I'll  twice  kiss  thee. 

To  thee  a  sheep)-hook  I  will  send, 

Be-prank'd  with  ribbands,  to  this  end, 

This,  this  alluring  hook  might  be  45 

Less  for  to  catch  a  sheep,  than  me. 

Thou  shalt  have  possets,  wassails  fine, 

Not  made  of  ale,  but  spiced  wine ; 

To  make  thy  maids  and  self  free  mirth. 

All  sitting  near  the  glitt'ring  hearth.  60 

Thou  shalt  have  ribbands,  roses,  rings. 

Gloves,  garters,  stockings,  shoes,  and  strings 

Of  winning  colours,  that  shall  move 

Others  to  lust,  but  me  to  love. 

These,  nay,  and  more,  thine  own  shall  be,  55 

If  thou  wilt  love,  and  live  with  me. 

THOMAS    CAREW 
In  Praise  of  His  Mistress 

You  that  will  a  wonder  know. 

Go  with  me ; 
Two  Sims  in  a  heaven  of  snow 

Both  burning  be,  — 
All  they  fire  that  do  but  eye  them,  5 

Yet  the  snow's  unmelted  by  them. 

Leaves  of  crimson  tulips  met 

Guide  the  way 
Where  two  pearly  rows  be  set. 

As  white  as  day ;  10 

When  they  part  themselves  asunder 
She  breathes  oracles  of  wonder. 


100  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

All  this  but  the  casket  is 
Which  contains 
15  Such  a  jewel,  as  to  miss 

Breeds  endless  pains,  — 
That's  her  mind,  and  they  that  know  it 
May  admire,  but  cannot  show  it. 

Disdain  Returned 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 
6  As  old  Time  makes  these  decay. 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 

Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
10  Kindle  never-dying  fires ; 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return ; 
15  I  have  searched  thy  soul  within 

And  find  naught  but  pride  and  scorn ; 
I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Song 

Would  you  know  what's  soft  ?    I  dare 
Not  bring  you  to  the  down,  or  air. 
Nor  to  stars  to  show  what's  bright, 
Nor  to  snow  to  teach  you  white ; 

6  Nor,  if  you  would  music  hear, 

Call  the  orbs  to  take  your  ear ; 


RICHARD  LOVELACE  101 

Nor,  to  please  your  sense,  bring  forth 
Bruised  nard,  or  what's  more  worth ; 

Or  on  food  were  your  thoughts  placed, 

Bring  you  nectar  for  a  taste ;  10 

Would  you  have  all  these  in  one. 

Name  my  mistress,  and  'tis  done  I 

RICHARD    LOVELACE 
To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  "Wars 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind. 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase,  6 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ;  10 

I  cotild  not  love  thee.  Dear,  so  much. 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 

When  Love  mth  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair  6 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames,  10 


102  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
15  Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,  I 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 

The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 
20  And  glories  of  my  king ; 

When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be. 

Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood. 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

25  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make. 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 
30  And  in  my  soul  am  free, 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 
Enjoy  such  liberty. 

SIR    JOHN    SUCKLING 
The  Constant  Lover 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together  ! 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

6  '   •  Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 
Such  a  constant  lover. 


JOHN  MILTON  103 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  :  10 

Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays,    , 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this  16 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan? 

Why  so  paJe  and  wan,  fond  lovei*? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale?  * 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her. 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale?  6 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute  ?  10 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !    This  will  not  move ; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love. 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  devil  take  her  I  16 

JOHN   MILTON 

L'Allegro 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  bom 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes  and  shrieks  and  sights  unholy  I 
Fmd  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 


104  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings. 

And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks, 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 
10  In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
15  With  two  sister  Graces  more, 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
20  As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying, 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 
25  Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles. 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles. 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
30  And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 
35  And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 

And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
40  In  unreproved  pleasures  free : 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 


JOHN  MILTON  105 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow,  dS- 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow. 

Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine. 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin,  60 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hoimds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  55 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe,  65 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 
Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures  :  70 

Russet  lawns  and  fallows  grey. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied,  75 

Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide ; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 


106  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

80  The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
85  Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes, 

Which  the  neat-handed  Philhs  dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves. 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 
Or,  if  the  earher  season  lead, 
90  To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
85  To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday. 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

100  Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale. 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led, 

105  Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn. 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 

110  Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend. 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

115  Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 


JOHN  MILTON  107 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hiun  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 

In  weeds  of  peace  high  trimnphs  hold,  120 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  126 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry. 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on. 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child. 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 
Married  to  immortal  verse. 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running. 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head  145 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


108  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

H  Penseroso 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  1 
How  little  you  bested. 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  1 
5  Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess. 
As  thick  and  niunberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  simbeams. 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
10  The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
16  And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
20  To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  sea  nymphs',  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
25  His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
30  Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
35  And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn 


JOHN  MILTON  109 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  Tvith  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet,  45 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ;  50 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night,  , 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  I 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  65 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,  70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 


110  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 

75  Over  some  wide-watered  shore. 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

80  Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom, 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
'         Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

85  Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour. 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear 
W^ith  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

90  What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook ; 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 

95  Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent. 

With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
100  Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin  1  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower ; 
105  Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half -told 


JOHN  MILTON  111 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  110 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 

Of  tourneys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 

Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont  ' 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud ; 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  130 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee,  with  honeyed  thigh. 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  miu-muring. 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep ; 


112  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 
150  Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid ; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Ch-  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 
155  But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
160        .         Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
165  Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
170  Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew. 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 
175  These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give. 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

Lycidas 

In  this  Monody  the  Author  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortunately 
drowned  in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637  ;  and  by 
occasion  foretells  the  ruin  of  our  corrupted  Clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 


JOHN  MILTON  113 

I  come  to  pluck  yoiir  berries  harsh  and  crude. 

And  with  forced  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year.  5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 

Compels  me  to  distiu-b  yovu*  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew  10 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well  15 

That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse ; 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  iu"n,  20 

And  as  he  passes  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ; 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared  25 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening,  bright,  30 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute. 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute ; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ;  35 

And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  om*  song. 

But  oh  I  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 


114  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

40  With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown. 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 

The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
45  As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze. 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
50  Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  yoiir  loved  Lycidas  ? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
55  Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 

Ay  me,  I  fondly  dream, 

"Had  ye  been  there"  —  for  what  could  that  have  done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
60  Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 

AMien  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 
Alas  1  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
65  To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade. 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ? 
70  Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  bm"st  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
75  Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "But  not  the  praise,'* 


JOHN  MILTON  115 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears : 

"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies ;  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  flood,  85 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea. 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 
They  know  not  of  his  story ;  95 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 

Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge  105 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe. 
"Ah  1  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  "my  dearest  pledge?" 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  110 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain. 


116  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  beUies'  sake 

\15  Creep,  and  intrude,  and  cHmb  into  the  fold  I 

Of  other  care  they  Httle  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
BHnd  mouths !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

120  A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  I 
What  recks  it  them  ?     What  need  they  ?    They  are  sped ; 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 

125.  The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

130  But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus ;  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 

135  Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks. 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 

140  That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers, 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 

145  The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

150  And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 


JOHN  MILTON  117 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  Uttle  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, 

Ay  me  !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ;  155 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,  160 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold. 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth ; 

And  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more,  165 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore  170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  simk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves. 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 
With  nectar  piu-e  his  oozy  locks  he  laves,  175 

And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies. 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  180 

And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  pyerilous  flood.  185 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey ; 


118  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
190  And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills. 

And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

On  His  Blindness 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide. 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
6  To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide ; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmvir,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
,  10  Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.     His  state 
Is  kingly :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Truth  and  Confomiity 
{From  Areopagitica) 

And  now  the  time  in  special  is,  by  privilege  to  write  and 
speak  what  may  help  to*the  further  discussing  of  matters  in 
agitation.  The  temple  of  Janus  with  his  two  controversal 
faces  might  now  not  unsignificantly  be  set  open.     And  though 

5  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the  earth, 
so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously  by  licensing  and 
prohibiting  to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  False- 
hood grapple ;  who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse,  in  a 
free  and  open  encounter?     Her  confuting  is  the  best  and 

10  surest  suppressing.     He  who  hears  what  praying  there  is  for 


JOHN  MILTON  119 

light  and  clearer  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among  us,  would 
think  of  other  matters  to  be  constituted  beyond  the  disci- 
pline of  Geneva,  framed  and  fabricked  already  to  our  hands. 
Yet  when  the  new  light  which  we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us, 
there  be  who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it  come  not  first  in  at  their  15 
casements. 

What  a  collusion  is  this,  whenas  we  are  exhorted  by  the 
wise  man  to  use  diligence,  to  seek  for  wisdom  as  for  hidden 
treasures  early  and  late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us 
to  know  nothing  but  by  statute?  When  a  man  hath  been 20 
laboring  the  hardest  labor  in  the  deep  mines  of  knowledge, 
hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all  their  equipage,  drawn 
forth  his  reasons  as  it  were  a  battle  ranged,  scattered  and 
defeated  all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  adversary 
into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  25 
if  he  please,  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of 
argument  —  for  his  opponents  then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambush- 
ments,  to  keep  a  narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the  chal- 
lenger should  pass,  though  it  be  valor  enough  in  soldier- 
ship, is  but  weakness  and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth,  30 
For  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next  to  the 
Almighty  ? 

She  needs  no  policies,  no  stratagems,  no  hcensings  to  make 
her  \'ictorious ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the  defenses  that 
error  uses  against  her  power.  Give  her  but  room,  and  do  35 
not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps,  for  then  she  speaks  not  true, 
as  the  old  Proteus  did,  who  spake  oracles  only  when  he  was 
caught  and  bound ;  but  then  rather  she  turns  herself  into  all 
shapes,  except  her  own,  and  perhaps  tunes  her  voice  accord- 
ing to  the  time,  as  Micaiah  did  before  Ahab,  until  she  be  ad-  40 
jured  into  her  own  likeness.  Yet  it  is  not  impossible  that 
she  may  have  more  shapes  than  one.  What  else  is  all  that 
rank  of  things  indifferent,  wherein  Truth  may  be  on  this 
side,  or  on  the  other,  without  being  unlike  herself?     W^hat 


120  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

45  but  a  vain  shadow  else  is  the  aboUtion  of  those  ordinances, 
that  hand-writing  nailed  to  the  cross?  what  great  purchase 
is  this  Christian  liberty  which  Paul  so  often  boasts  of?  His 
doctrine  is,  that  he  who  eats  or  eats  not,  regards  a  day  or 
regards  it  not,  may  do  either  to  the  Lord.     How  many  other 

50  things  might  be  tolerated  in  peace,  and  left  to  conscience, 
had  we  but  charity,  and  were  it  not  the  chief  stronghold  of 
our  hypocrisy  to  be  ever  judging  one  another.  I  fear  yet 
this  iron  yoke  of  outward  conformity  hath  left  a  slavish  print 
upon  our  necks ;   the  ghost  of  a  linen  decency  yet  haunts  us. 

55  We  stumble  and  are  impatient  at  the  least  dividing  of  one 
visible  congregation  from  another,  though  it  be  not  in  funda- 
mentals ;  and  through  our  forwardness  to  suppress,  and  our 
backwardness  to  recover  any  enthralled  piece  of  truth  out  of 
the  gripe  of  custom,  we  care  not  to  keep  truth  separated 

60  from  truth,  which  is  the  fiercest  rent  and  disunion  of 
all. 

We  do  not  see  that  while  we  still  affect  by  all  means  a  rigid 
external  formality,  we  may  as  soon  fall  again  into  a  gross 
conforming  stupidity,  a  stark  and  dead  congealment  of  wood 

65  and  hay  and  stubble  forced  and  frozen  together,  which  is 
more  to  the  sudden  degenerating  of  a  church  than  many 
subdichotomies  of  petty  schisms.  Not  that  I  can  think  well 
of  every  light  separation,  or  that  all  in  a  church  is  to  be  ex- 
pected gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones.     It  is  not  possible 

70  for  man  to  sever  the  wheat  from  the  tares,  the  good  fish  from 
the  other  fry ;  that  must  be  the  angels'  ministry  at  the  end 
of  mortal  things.  Yet  if  all  cannot  be  of  one  mind  (as  who 
looks  they  should  be?)  this  doubtless  is  more  wholesome, 
more  prudent,  and  more  Christian,  that  many  be  tolerated, 

75  rather  than  all  compelled. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  121 

SIR   THOMAS   BROWNE 

Heaven  and  Hell 
(From  Religio  Medici) 

Men  commonly  set  forth  the  torments  of  hell  by  fire,  and 
the  extremity  of  corporal  afflictions,  and  describe  hell  in  the 
same  method  that  Mahomet  doth  heaven.  This  indeed 
makes  a  noise,  and  drums  in  popular  ears  :  but  if  this  be  the 
terrible  piece  thereof,  it  is  not  worthy  to  stand  in  diameters 
with  heaven,  whose  happiness  consists  in  that  part  that  is 
best  able  to  comprehend  it,  that  immortal  essence,  that 
translated  divinity  and  colony  of  God,  the  soul.  Surely, 
though  we  place  hell  under  earth,  the  devil's  walk  and  pur- 
lieu is  about  it :  men  speak  too  popularly  who  place  it  in  lo 
those  flaming  mountains,  which  to  grosser  apprehensions  rep- 
resent hell.  The  heart  of  man  is  the  place  the  devils  dwell 
in :  I  feel  sometimes  a  hell  within  my  self ;  Lucifer  keeps  his 
court  in  my  breast.  Legion  is  revived  in  me.  There  are  as 
many  hells,  as  Anaxagoras  conceited  worlds.  There  was  15 
more  than  one  hell  in  Magdalene,  when  there  were  seven 
devils,  for  every  devil  is  a  hell  unto  himself ;  he  holds  enough 
of  torture  in  his  own  ubi,  and  needs  not  the  misery  of  cir- 
cumference to  afflict  him :  and  thus  a  distracted  conscience 
here,  is  a  shadow  or  introduction  unto  hell  hereafter.  Who  20 
can  but  pity  the  merciful  intention  of  those  hands  that  do 
destroy  themselves?  the  devil,  were  it  in  his  power,  would 
do  the  like ;  which  being  impossible,  his  miseries  are  endless, 
and  he  suffers  most  in  that  attribute  wherein  he  is  impassible, 
his  immortality.  25 

I  thank  God,  and  with  joy  I  mention  it,  I  was  never  afraid 
of  hell,  nor  never  grew  pale  at  the  description  of  that  place. 
I  have  so  fixed  my  contemplations  on  heaven,  that  I  have 
almost  forgot  the  idea  of  hell,  and  am  afraid  rather  to  lose 
the  joys  of  the  one,  than  endure  the  misery  of  the  other :   to  30 


122  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

be  deprived  of  them  is  a  perfect  hell,  and  needs,  methinks, 
no  addition  to  complete  our  afflictions.  That  terrible  term 
hath  never  detained  me  from  sin,  nor  do  I  owe  any  good  action 
to  the  name  thereof.     I  fear  God,  yet  am  not  afraid  of  Him : 

35  his  mercies  make  me  ashamed  of  my  sins,  before  his  judg- 
ments afraid  thereof.  These  are  the  forced  and  secondary 
method  of  his  wisdom,  which  he  useth  but  as  the  last  remedy, 
and  upon  provocation ;  a  course  rather  to  deter  the  wicked, 
than  incite  the  virtuous  to  his  worship.     I  can  hardly  think 

40  there  was  ever  any  scared  into  heaven ;  they  go  the  fairest 
way  to  heaven  that  would  serve  God  without  a  hell ;  other 
mercenaries,  that  crouch  unto  him  in  fear  of  hell,  though 
they  term  themselves  the  servants,  are  indeed  but  the  slaves, 
of  the  Almighty. 

Charity 
(From  Religio  Medici) 

Now  for  that  other  virtue  of  charity,  without  which  faith 
is  a  mere  notion,  and  of  no  existence,  I  have  ever  endeavored 
to  nourish  the  merciful  disposition  and  humane  inclination 
I  borrowed  from  my  parents,  and  regulate  it  to  the  written 
5  and  prescribed  laws  of  charity.  And  if  I  hold  the  true 
anatomy  of  my  self,  I  am  delineated  and  naturally  framed  to 
such  a  piece  of  virtue ;  for  I  am  of  a  constitution  so  general, 
that  it  consorts  and  sympathiseth  with  all  things.  I  have 
no  antipathy,  or  rather  idiosyncrasy,  in  diet,  humor,  air, 

10  anything.  I  wonder  not  at  the  French  for  their  dishes  of 
frogs,  snails,  and  toadstools,  nor  at  the  Jews  for  locusts  and 
grasshoppers;  but  being  amongst  them,  make  them  my 
common  viands,  and  I  find  they  agree  with  my  stomach  as 
well  as  theirs.     I  could  digest  a  salad  gathered  in  a  church- 

16  yard,  as  well  as  in  a  garden.  I  cannot  start  at  the  presence 
of  a  serpent,  scorpion,  lizard,  or  salamander :  at  the  sight  of 
a  toad  or  viper,  I  find  in  me   no  desire  to  take  up  a  stone  to 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  123 

destroy  them.  I  find  not  in  myself  those  common  antipathies 
that  I  can  discover  in  others :  those  national  repugnances 
do  not  touch  me,  nor  do  I  behold  with  prejudice  the  French,  20 
Italian,  Spaniard,  or  Dutch :  but  where  I  find  their  actions  in 
balance  with  my  countrymen's,  I  honor,  love,  and  embrace 
them  in  the  same  degree.  I  have  been  shipwrecked,  yet  am 
not  enemy  with  the  sea  or  winds ;  I  can  study,  play,  or  sleep 
in  a  tempest.  25 

In  brief,  I  am  averse  from  nothing :  my  conscience  would 
give  me  the  lie  if  I  should  say  I  absolutely  detest  or  hate 
any  essence  but  the  devil ;  or  so  at  least  abhor  any  thing, 
but  that  we  might  come  to  composition.  I  hold  not  so 
narrow  a  conceit  of  this  virtue,  as  to  conceive  that  to  give  30 
alms  is  only  to  be  charitable,  or  think  a  piece  of  liberality 
can  comprehend  the  total  of  charity.  Divinity  hath  wisely 
divided  the  act  thereof  into  many  branches,  and  hath  taught 
us  in  this  narrow  way  many  paths  unto  goodness ;  as  many 
ways  as  we  may  do  good,  so  many  ways  we  may  be  charitable.  35 

There  are  infirmities  not  only  of  the  body,  but  of  soul,  and 
fortunes,  which  do  require  the  merciful  hand  of  our  abilities. 
I  cannot  contemn  a  man  for  ignorance,   but  behold  him 
with  as  much  pity  as  I  do  Lazarus.     It  is  no  greater  charity 
to  clothe  his  body,  than  apparel  the  nakedness  of  his  soul.  40 
It  is  an  honorable  object  to  see  the  reasons  of  other  men  wear  . 
our  liveries,  and  their  borrowed  understandings  do  homage 
to  the  bounty  of  ours  :  it  is  the  cheapest  way  of  beneficence, 
and,  like  the  natural  charity  of  the  sun,  illuminates  another 
without  obscuring  itself.     To  be  reserved  and  caitiff  in  this  45 
part  of  goodness,  is  the  sordidest  piece  of  covetousness,  and 
more   contemptible   than   pecuniary   avarice.     To   this    (as 
calling  my  self  a  scholar),  I  am  obliged  by  the  duty  of  my 
condition :    I  make  not  therefore  my  head  a  grave,  but  a 
treasure,  of  knowledge ;    I  intend  no  monopoly,  but  a  com-  50 
munity  in  learning ;  I  study  not  for  my  own  sake  only,  but 


124  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

for  theirs  that  study  not  for  themselves.     I  envy  no  man  that 
knows  more  than  my  self,  but  pity  them  that  know  less. 
I  instruct  no  man  as  an  exercise  of  my  knowledge,  or  with 

55  an  intent  rather  to  nourish  and  keep  it  alive  in  mine  own 
head  than  beget  and  propagate  it  in  his :  and  in  the  midst 
of  all  my  endeavors  there  is  but  one  thought  that  dejects  me, 
that  my  acquired  parts  must  perish  with  my  self,  nor  can 
be  legacied  among  my  honored  friends.     I  cannot  fall  out  or 

60  contemn  a  man  for  an  error,  or  conceive  why  a  difference  in 
opinion  should  divide  an  affection;  for  controversies,  dis- 
putes, and  argumentations,  both  in  philosophy  and  in  divinity, 
if  they  meet  with  discreet  and  peaceable  natures,  do  not  in- 
fringe the  laws  of  charity.     In  all  disputes,  so  much  as  there 

65 is  of  passion,  so  much  there  is  of  nothing  to  the  purpose; 
for  then  reason,  like  a  bad  hound,  spends  upon  a  false  scent, 
and  forsakes  the  question  first  started.  And  this  is  one 
reason  why  controversies  are  never  determined ;  for,  though 
they  be  amply  proposed,  they  are  scarce  at  all  handled, 

70 they  do  so  swell  with  unnecessary  digressions;  and  the 
parenthesis  on  the  party  is  crften  as  large  as  the  main  dis- 
course upon  the  subject. 

SAMUEL   PEPYS 

Shakspere's  The  Tempest 
(From  Diary) 

Nov.  7,  1667.  Up,  and  at  the  office  hard  all  the  morning, 
and  at  noon  resolved  with  Sir  W.  Pen  to  go  see  "  The  Tem- 
pest," an  old  play  of  Shakespeare's,  acted,  I  hear,  the  first 
day ;  and  so  my  wife,  and  girl,  and  W.  Hewer  by  themselves, 
5  and  Sir  W.  Pen  and  I  afterwards  by  ourselves.  The  House 
mighty  full ;  the  King  and  Court  there :  and  the  most 
innocent  play  that  ever  I  saw ;  and  a  curious  piece  of  mu- 
sique  in  an  echo  of  half  sentences,  the  echo  repeating  the 


SAMUEL  PEPYS  125 

former  half,  while  the  man  goes  on  to  the  latter;   which  is 
mighty  pretty.     The  play  has  no  great  wit,  but  yet  good,  10 
above  ordinary  plays. 

Nove.  13,  1667.  Thence  home  to  dinner,  and  as  soon  as 
dinner  done  I  and  my  wife  and  Willet  to  the  Duke  of  York's 
house,  and  there  saw  the  Tempest  again,  which  is  very 
pleasant,  and  full  of  so  good  variety  that  I  cannot  be  more  15 
pleased  in  a  comedy,  only  the  seamen's  part  a  little  too 
tedious. 

Dec.  12,  1667.  After  dinner  I  all  alone  to  the  Duke  of 
York's  house,  and  saw  "The  Tempest,"  which,  as  often  as  I 
have  seen  it,  I  do  like  very  well,  and  the  house  very  full.          20 

Feb.  3,  1668.  At  noon  home  to  dinner,  and  thence  after 
dinner  to  the  Duke  of  York's  house,  to  the  play,  "The 
Tempest,"  which  we  have  often  seen,  but  yet  I  was  pleased 
again,  and  shall  be  again  to  see  it,  it  is  so  full  of  variety,  and 
particularly  this  day  I  took  pleasure  to  learn  the  tune  of  25 
the  seaman's  dance,  which  I  have  much  desired  to  be  perfect 
in,  and  have  made  myself  so. 

April  30,  1668.  Thence  I  to  the  Duke  of  York's  play- 
house, and  there  I  saw  "The  Tempest,"  which  still  pleases 
me  mightily.  30 

May  11,  1668.  To  the  Duke  of  York's  playhouse,  and 
there  saw  "The  Tempest,"  and  between  two  acts,  I  went  out 
to  Mr.  Harris,  and  got  him  to  repeat  to  me  the  words  of  the 
Echo,  while  I  writ  them  down,  having  tried  in  the  play  to 
have  wrote  them;  but,  when  I  had  done  it,  having  done  it 35 
without  looking  upon  my  paper,  I  find  I  could  not  read  the 
blacklead.  But  now  I  have  got  the  words  clear,  and,  in 
going  in  thither,  had  the  pleasure  to  see  the  actors  in  their 
several  dresses,  especially  the  seamen  and  monster,  which 
were  very  droll :  so  into  the  play  again.  40 


126      '  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  Great  Fire  of  London 

{From  Diary) 

Sept.  2,  1666  (Lord's  day).  Some  of  our  maids  sitting  up 
late  last  night  to  get  things  ready  against  our  feast  today, 
Jane  called  us  up  about  three  in  the  morning,  to  tell  us  of  a 
great  fire  they  saw  in  the  City.  So  I  rose  and  went  to  her 
5  window,  and  thought  it  to  be  on  the  back  side  of  Mark  Lane 
at  the  farthest ;  but,  being  unused  to  such  fires  as  followed,  I 
thought  it  far  enough  off ;  and  so  went  to  bed  again  and  to 
sleep.  About  seven  rose  again  to  dress  myself,  and  there 
looked  out  at  the  window,  and  saw  the  fire  not  so  much  as  it 

10  was  and  further  off.  So  to  my  closet  to  set  things  to  rights 
after  yesterday's  cleaning.  By  and  by  Jane  comes  and  tells 
me  that  she  hears  that  above  three  hundred  houses  have  been 
burned  down  to-night  by  the  fire  we  saw,  and  that  it  is  now 
burning  down  all  Fish  Street,  by  London  Bridge.     So  I  made 

15  myself  ready  presently,  and  walked  to  the  Tower,  and  there 
got  up  upon  one  of  the  high  places,  Sir  J.  Robinson's  little 
son  going  up  with  me ;  and  there  I  did  see  the  houses  at  that 
end  of  the  bridge  all  on  fire,  and  an  infinite  great  fire  on  this 
and  the  other  side  the  end  of  the  bridge ;  which,  among  other 

20  people,  did  trouble  me  for  poor  little  Michell  and  our  Sarah 
on  the  bridge.  So  down,  with  my  heart  full  of  trouble,  to 
the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  who  tells  me  that  it  begun  this 
morning  in  the  King's  baker's  house  in  Pudding  Lane,  and 
that  it  hath  burned  St.  Magnus's  Church  and  most  part  of 

25  Fish  Street  already.  So  I  down  to  the  waterside,  and  there 
got  a  boat,  and  through  bridge,  and  there  saw  a  lamentable 
fire. 

Poor  Michell's  house,  as   far  as  the  Old  Swan,   already 
burned  that  way,  and  the  fire  running  further,  that  in  a  very 

30  little  time  it  got  as  far  as  the  Steel-yard,  while  I  was  there. 
Everybody  endeavoring  to  remove  their  goods,  and  flinging 


SAMUEL  PEPYS  127 

into  the  river,  or  bringing  them  .into  lighters  that  lay  off ; 
poor  people  staying  in  their  houses  as  long  as  till  the  very  fire 
touched  them,  and  then  running  into  boats,  or  clambering 
from  one  pair  of  stairs  by  the  waterside  to  another.  And  35 
among  other  things,  the  poor  pigeons,  I  perceive,  were  loth 
to  leave  their  houses,  but  hovered  about  the  windows  and 
balconies  till  they  burned  their  wings,  and  fell  down.  Having 
stayed,  and  in  an  hour's  time  seen  the  fire  rage  every  way, 
and  nobody,  to  my  sight,  endeavoring  to  quench  it,  but  to  40 
remove  their  goods,  and  leave  all  to  the  fire,  and  having  seen 
it  get  as  far  as  the  Steel-yard,  and  the  wind  mighty  high  and 
driving  it  into  the  City,  and  every  thing,  after  so  long  a 
drought,  proving  combustible,  even  the  very  stones  of 
churches,  and  among  other  things  the  poor  steeple  by  which  45 

pretty  Mrs.  lives,  and  whereof  my  old  schoolfellow 

Elborough  is  parson,  taken  fire  in  the  very  top,  and  there 
burned  till  it  fell  down :  I  to  Whitehall  (with  a  gentleman 
with  me  who  desired  to  go  off  from  the  Tower,  to  see  the  fire, 
in  my  boat) ;  to  Whitehall,  and  there  up  to  the  King's  50 
closet  in  the  Chapel,  where  people  come  about  me,  and  I  did 
give  them  an  account  dismayed  them  all,  and  word  was  carried 
in  to  the  King.  So  I  was  called  for,  and  did  tell  the  King  and 
Duke  of  York  what  I  saw,  and  that  unless  his  Majesty  did 
command  houses  to  be  pulled  down  nothing  could  stop  the  55 
fire.  They  seemed  much  troubled,  and  the  King  com- 
manded me  to  go  to  my  Lord  Mayor  from  him,  and  command 
him  to  spare  no  houses,  but  to  pull  down  before  the  fire  every 
way.  The  Duke  of  York  did  bid  me  tell  him  that  if  he  would 
have  any  more  soldiers  he  shall.  60 

I  walked  along  Watling  Street,  as  well  as  I  could ;  every 
creature  coming  away  loaden  with  goods  to  save,  and  here 
and  there  sick  people  carried  away  in  beds.  At  last  met  my 
Lord  Mayor  in  Canning  Street,  like  a  man  spent,  with  a 
handkercher  about  his  neck.     To  the  King's  message  he  65 


128  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

cried,  like  a  fainting  woman,  "  Lord  !  what  can  I  do  ?  I  am 
spent :  people  will  not  obey  me.  I  have  been  pulling  down 
houses ;  but  the  fire  overtakes  us  faster  than  we  can  do  it." 
That  he  needed  no  more  soldiers;    and  that  for  himself,  he 

70  must  go  and  refresh  him  self,  having  been  up  all  night.  So  he 
left  me,  and  I  him,  and  walked  home,  seeing  people  all  almost 
distracted,  and  no  manner  of  means  used  to  quench  the  fire. 
The  houses,  too,  so  very  thick  thereabouts,  and  full  of  matter 
for  burning,  as  pitch  and  tar,  in  Thames  Street ;   and  ware- 

75  houses  of  oil,  and  wines,  and  brandy,  and  other  things. 
And  to  see  the  churches  all  filling  with  goods  by  people  who 
themselves  should  have  been  quietly  there  at  this  time. 
By  this  time  it  was  about  twelve  o'clock;  and  so  home. 
Soon  as  dined,  I  and  Moore  away,  and  walked  through  the 

80  City,  the  streets  full  of  nothing  but  people  and  horses,  and 
carts  loaden  with  goods,  ready  to  run  over  one  another,  and 
removing  goods  from  one  burned  house  to  another. 

Met  with  the  King  and  Duke  of  York  in  their  barge,  and 
with  them  to  Queenhithe,  and  there  called  Sir  Richard  Browne 

85  to  them.  Their  order  was  only  to  pull  down  houses  apace ; 
but  little  was  or  could  be  done,  the  fire  coming  upon  them  so 
fast.  So  near  the  fire  as  we  could  for  smoke ;  and  all  over 
the  Thames,  with  one's  face  in  the  wind,  you  were  almost 
burned  with  a  shower  of  fire-drops.     This  is  very  true ;  so  as 

90  houses  were  burned  by  these  drops  and  flakes  of  fire,  — 
three  or  four,  nay,  five  or  six  houses,  one  from  another. 
WTien  we  could  endure  no  more  upon  the  water,  we  to  a  little 
ale-house  on  the  Bankside,  over  against  the  Three  Cranes, 
and  there  stayed  till  it  was  dark  almost,  and  saw  the  fire 

95  grow ;  and  as  it  grew  darker,  appeared  more  and  more,  and 
in  corners  and  upon  steeples,  and  between  churches  and 
houses,  as  far  as  we  could  see  up  the  hill  of  the  city,  in  a  most 
horrid,  malicious,  bloody  flame,  not  like  the  fine  flame  of  an 
ordinary  fire.     We  stayed  till,  it  being  darkish,  we  saw  the 


JOHN  DRYDEN  129 

fire  as  only  one  entire  arch  of  fire  from  this  to  the  other  side  lOO 
the  bridge,  and  in  a  bow  up  the  hill  for  an  arch  of  above  a 
mile  long :  it  made  me  weep  to  see  it.  The  churches,  houses, 
and  all  on  fire  and  flaming  at  once ;  and  a  horrid  noise  the 
flames  made,  and  the  cracking  of  houses  at  their  ruin.  So 
home  with  a  sad  heart.  105 

Farewell  I 
{From  Diary) 

May  31,  1669.  Thus  ends  all  that  I  doubt  I  shall  ever  be 
able  to  do  with  my  own  eyes  in  the  keeping  of  my  Journal, 
I  being  not  able  to  do  it  any  longer,  having  done  now  so  long 
as  to  undo  my  eyes  almost  every  time  that  I  take  a  pen  in  my 
hand ;  and  therefore,  whatever  comes  of  it,  I  must  forbear :  5 
and  therefore  resolve  from  this  time  forward  to  have  it  kept  by 
my  people  in  long-hand,  and  must  be  contented  to  set  down 
no  more  than  is  fit  for  them  and  all  the  world  to  know ;  or 
if  there  be  any  thing,  I  must  endeavour  to  keep  a  margin  in 
my  book  open,  to  add  here  and  there  a  note  in  short-hand  lo 
with  my  own  hand.  And  so  I  betake  myself  to  that  course, 
which  is  almost  as  much  as  to  see  myself  go  into  my  grave ; 
for  which,  and  all  the  discomforts  that  will  accompany  my 
being  blind,  the  God  prepare  me !     S..P. 


JOHN   DRYDEN 

Preface  to  Dryden  and  Davenant's  "  The  Tempest " 

The  writing  of  prefaces  to  plays  was  probably  invented  by 
some  very  ambitious  poet,  who  never  thought  he  had  enough ; 
perhaps  by  some  ape  of  the  French  eloquence,  which  uses  to 
make  a  business  of  a  letter  of  gallantry  an  examen  of  a  farce ; 
and,  in  short,  a  great  pomp  and  ostentation  of  words  on  every  5 
trifle.     This  is  certainly  the  talent  of  that  nation,  and  ought 


130  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

not  to  be  invaded  by  any  other.     They  do  that  out  of  gaiety 
which  would  be  an  imposition  upon  us. 
We  may  satisfy  our  selves  with  surmounting  them  in  the 

10  scene,  and  safely  leave  them  those  trappings  of  writing  and 
flourishes  of  the  pen  with  which  they  do  adorn  the  borders  of 
their  plays,  and  which  are  indeed  no  more  than  good  landscapes 
to  a  very  indifferent  picture.  I  must  proceed  no  further  in 
this  argument,  lest  I  run  my  self  beyond  my  excuse  for  writing 

15  this.     Give  me  leave  therefore  to  tell  you,  reader,  that  I  do 

it  not  to  set  a  value  on  anything  I  have  written  in  this  play, 

.  but  out  of  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  Sir  William  Davenant, 

who  did  me  the  honour  to  join  me  with  him  in  the  alteration 

of  it. 

20  It  was  originally  Shakespear's,  a  poet  for  whom  he  had 
particularly  a  high  veneration,  and  whom  he  first  taught  me 
to  admire.  The  play  itself  had  formerly  been  acted  with 
great  success  in  the  Blackfriars ;  and  our  excellent  Fletcher 
had  so  great  a  value  for  it  that  he  thought  fit  to  make  use  of 

25  the  same  design,  not  much  varied,  a  second  time.     Those 

who  have  seen  his  Sea-Voyage,  may  easily  discern  that  it  was  a 

,  copy  of  Shakespear's  Tempest :   the  storm,  the  desert  island, 

and  the  woman  who  had  never  seen  a  man,  are  all  sufficient 

testimonies  of  it.     But  Fletcher  wa^  not  the  only  poet  who 

30  made  use  of  Shakespear's  plot :  Sir  John  Suckling,  a  pro- 
fessed admirer  of  our  author,  has  followed  his  footsteps  in  his 
Goblins;  his  Rogmella  being  an  open  imitation  of  Shake- 
spear's Miranda,  and  his  spirits,  though  counterfeit,  yet  are 
copied  from  Ariel. 

35  But  Sir  William  Davenant,  as  he  was  a  man  of  quick  and 
piercing  imagination,  soon  found  that  somewhat  might  be 
added  to  the  design  of  Shakespear  of  which  neither  Fletcher 
nor  Suckling  had  ever  thought;  and  therefore  to  put  the 
last  hand  to  it,  he  designed  the  counterpart  to  Shakespear's 

40  plot,  namely,  that  of  a  man  who  had  never  seen  a  woman ; 


JOHN  DRYDEN  131 

that  by  this  means  those  two  characters  of  innocence  and 
love  might  the  more  illustrate  and  commend  each  other. 
This  excellent  contrivance  he  was  pleased  to  communicate 
to  me,  and  to  desire  my  assistance  in  it,  I  confess,  that 
from  the  very  first  moment  it  so  pleased  me,  that  I  never  45 
writ  anything  with  more  delight.  I  must  likewise  do  him 
that  justice  to  acknowledge  that  my  writing  received  daily 
his  amendments,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  it  is  not  so 
faulty  as  the  rest  which  I  have  done  without  the  help  or 
correction  of  so  judicious  a  friend.  The  comical  part  of  the  50 
sailors  were  also  of  his  invention  and  for  the  most  part  his 
writing,  as  you  will  easily  discover  by  the  style. 

In  the   time  I  writ  with  him,  I  had    the  opportunity  to 
observe  somewhat  more  nearly  of  him  than  I  had  formerly 
done,  when  I  had  only  a  bare  acquaintance  with  him.     1 55 
found  him  then  of  so  quick  a  fancy,  that  nothing  was  proposed 
to  him  on  which  he  could  not  suddenly  produce  a  thought 
extremely  pleasant  and  surprising ;   and  those  first  thoughts 
of  his,  contrary  to  the  old  Latin  proverb,  were  not  always 
the  least  happy.     And  as  his  fancy  was  quick,  so  likewise  60 
were  the  products  of  it  remote  and  new.     He  borrowed  not 
of  any  other;    and  his  imaginations  were  such  as  could  not 
easily  enter  into  any  other  man.     His  corrections  were  sober 
and  judicious ;  and  he  corrected  his  own  writings  much  more 
severely  than  those  of   another  man,  bestowing   twice  the  65 
time  and  labour  in  polishing  which  he  used  in  invention. 

It  had  perhaps  been  easy  enough  for  me  to  have  arrogated 
more  to  my  self  than  was  my  due,  in  the  writing  of  this  play, 
and  to  have  passed  by  his  name  with  silence  in  the  publica- 
tion of  it  with  the  same  ingratitude  which  others  have  used  70 
to  him,  whose  writings  he  hath  not  only  corrected,  as  he 
hath  done  this,  but  has  had  a  greater  inspection  over  them, 
and  sometimes  added  whole  scenes  together,  which  may  as 
easily  be  distinguished  from  the  rest  as  true  gold  from  coun- 


132  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

75  terfeit  by  the  weight.  But  besides  the  unworthiness  of  the 
action  which  deterred  me  from  it  (there  being  nothing  so 
base  as  to  rob  the  dead  of  his  reputation)  I  am  satisfied  I 
could  never  have  received  so  much  honour,  in  being  thought 
the  author  of  any  poem,  how  excellent  soever,  as  I  shall 

80  from  the  joining  my  imperfections  with  the  merit  and  name 
of  Shakespear  and  Sir  William  Davenant. 


Mac  Flecknoe 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay. 
And,  when  fate  summons,  monarchs  must  obey. 
This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus,  young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed  long ; 
6  In  prose  and  verse,  was  owned  without  dispute. 

Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase. 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  debate 

10  To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state ; 

And,  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign  and  wage  immortal  war  with  wit, 
Cried,  "  'Tis  resolved,  for  Nature  pleads  that  he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 

15  Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears, 

.  Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years ; 
Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 
The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence, 

20  But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 

Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval ; 
But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no  ray, 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 

25  Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye 

And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  majesty, 


JOHN  DRYDEN  133 

Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks  that  shade  the  plain, 

And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 

Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  typ>es  of  thee. 

Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology.  30 

Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they. 

Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way,  ' 

And  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget  came 

To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 


This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous  way,  35 

New  humors  to  invent  for  each  new  play  : 

This  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind, 

By  which  one  way  to  dulness  'tis  inclined, 

Which  makes  thy  writings  lean  on  one  side  still. 

And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy  will.  40 

Nor  let  thy  mountain  belly  make  pretence 

Of  likeness ;  thine's  a  tympany  of  sense. 

A  tun  of  man  in  thy  large  bulk  is  -vrrit, 

But  sm"e  thou  art  but  a  kilderkin  of  wit. 

Like  mine,  thy  gentle  numbers  feebly  creep ;  45 

Thy  tragic  muse  gives  smiles ;  thy  comic,  sleep. 

With  whate'er  gall  thou  set'st  thyself  to  write, 

Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite ; 

In  thy  felonious  heart  though  venom  lies. 

It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish  pen,  and  dies.  50 

Thy  genius  calls  thee  not  to  purchase  fame 

In  keen  iambics,  but  mild  anagram. 

Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy  command 

Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  Land. 

There  thou  mayest  wings  display  and  altars  raise,  55 

And  torture  one  poor  word  ten  thousand  ways ; 

Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  different  talents  suit. 

Set  thy  own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy  lute." 

He  said,  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely  heard. 

For  Bruce  and  Longville  had  a  trap  prepared,  60 

And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard. 


134  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Sinking,  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind, 
Borne  upwards  by  a  subterreanean  wind. 
The  mantle  fell  to  the  yoiuig  prophet's  part 
66  With  double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 

*  Under  Milton's  Picture 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed. 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last ; 
6  The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go ; 

To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


JOHN   BUNYAN 

The  Trial  of  Christian  and  Faithful 
{From  The  Pilgrim's  Progress) 

Then  a  convenient  time  being  appointed,  they  brought 
them  forth  to  their  trial  in  order  to  their  condemnation. 
When  the  time  was  come,  they  were  brought  before  their 
enemies,  and  arraigned.  The  judge's  name  was  Lord  Hate- 
5  good.  Their  indictment  was  one  and  the  same  in  substance, 
though  somewhat  varying  in  form,  the  contents  whereof 
were  this  :  — 

"  That  they  were  enemies  to  and  disturbers  of  their  trade ; 
that  they  had  made  commotions  and  divisions  in  the  town, 
10  and  had  won  a  party  to  their  own  most  dangerous  opinions 
in  contempt  of  the  law  of  their  prince." 

Then  Faithful  began  to  answer,  that  he  had  only  set  him- 
self against  that  which  had  set  itself  against  Him  that  is 
higher  than  the  highest.  And  said  he,  "  As  for  disturbance, 
15  I  make  none,  being  myself  a  man  of  peace ;  the  parties  that 
were  won  to  us,  were  won  by  beholding  our  truth  and  inno- 
cence, and  they  are  only  turned  from  the  worse  to  the  better. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  135 

And  as  to  the  king  you  talk  of,  since  he  is  Beelzebub,  the 
enemy  of  our  Lord,  I  defy  him  and  all  his  angels." 

Then  proclamation  was  made,  that  they  that  had  aught  20 
to  say  for  their  lord  the  king  against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
should  forthwith  appear  and  give  in  their  evidence.  So 
there  came  in  three  witnesses,  to  wit.  Envy,  Superstition, 
and  Pickthank.  They  were  then  asked  if  they  knew  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar ;  and  what  they  had  to  say  for  their  lord  25 
the  king  against  him. 

Then  stood  forth  Envy,  and  said  to  this  effect :  "  My  Lord, 
I  have  known  this  man  a  long  time,  and  will  attest  upon  my 
oath  before  this  honom^able  bench,  that  he  is "  — 

Judge.     Hold  !    Give  him  his  oath.  30 

So  they  sware  him.  Then  he  said  :  "  My  Lord,  this  man, 
notwithstanding  his  plausible  name,  is  one  of  the  vilest  men 
in  our  country.  He  neither  regardeth  prince  nor  people, 
law  nor  custom ;  but  doth  all  that  he  can  to  possess  all  men 
with  certain  of  his  disloyal  notions,  which  he  in  the  general  35 
calls  principles  of  faith  and  holiness.  And  in  particular, 
I  heard  him  once  myself  affirm  that  Christianity  and  the 
customs  of  our  town  of  Vanity  were  diametrically  opposite, 
and  could  not  be  reconciled.  By  which  saying,  my  Lord, 
he  doth  at  once  not  only  condemn  all  our  laudable  doings,  40 
but  us  in  the  doing  of  them." 

Then  did  the  Judge  say  to  him,  "Hast  thou  any  more  to 
say?" 

Envy.     My  Lord,  I  could  say  much  more,  only  I  would 
not  be  tedious  to  the  court.     Yet  if  need  be,  when  the  other  45 
gentlemen  have  given  in  their  evndence,  rather  than  any- 
thing shall  be  wanting  that  will  despatch  him,  I  will  enlarge 
my  testimony  against  him. 

So  he  was  bid  stand  by. 

[The  substance  of  Superstition's  and  Pickthank's  testi-50 
mony  is  sufficiently  indicated  by  Faithful's  answer  later. 


136  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  their  manner  of  testifying  is  much  the  same  as  Envy's.] 

When  this  Pickthank  had  told  his  tale,  the  Judge  directed 

his  speech  to  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  saying,  "  Thou  runagate, 

55  heretic,   and   traitor,   hast   thou  heard   what   these  honest 

gentlemen  have  witnessed  against  thee?" 

Faithful.     May  I  speak  a  few  words  in  my  own  defence  ? 

Judge.     Sirrah,  sirrah,  thou  deservest  to  live  no  longer, 

but  to  be  slain  immediately  upon  the  place;    yet  that  all 

60  men  may  see  our  gentleness  towards  thee,  let  us  see  what  thou 
hast  to  say. 

Faithful.  1.  I  say  then  in  answer  to  what  Mr.  Envy 
hath  spoken,  I  never  said  aught  but  this,  That  what  rule,  or 
laws,  or  custom,  or  people,  were  flat  against  the  word  of 

65  God,  are  diametrically  opposite  to  Christianity.  If  I  have 
said  amiss  in  this,  convince  me  of  mine  error,  and  I  am  ready 
here  before  you  to  make  my  recantation. 

2.  As  to  the  second,  to  wit,  Mr.  Superstition,  and  his 
charge  against  me,  I  said  only  this.  That  in  the  worship  of 

70 God  there  is  required  a  divine  faith;  but  there  can  be  no 
divine  faith  without  a  divine  revelation  of  the  will  of  God : 
therefore  whatever  is  thrust  into  the  worship  of  God  that  is 
not  agreeable  to  divine  revelation,  cannot  be  done  but  by  an 
human  faith,  which  faith  will  not  be  profit  to  eternal  life. 

75  3.  As  to  what  Mr.  Pickthank  hath  said,  I  say,  (avoiding 
terms,  as  that  I  am  said  to  rail,  and  the  like)  that  the  prince 
of  this  town,  with  all  the  rabblement  his  attendants,  by  this 
gentleman  named,  are  more  fit  for  a  being  in  hell,  than  in  this 
town  and  country :   and  so,  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me ! 

80  Then  the  Judge  called  to  the  jury  (who  all  this  while  stood 
by,  to  hear  and  observe) :  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  see 
this  man  about  whom  so  great  an  uproar  hath  been  made  in 
this  town :  you  have  also  heard  what  these  worthy  gentle- 
men have  witnessed  against  him :    also  you  have  heard  his 

85  reply  and  confession :    it  lieth  now  in  your  breasts  to  hang 


JOHN  BUNYAN  137 

him,  or  save  his  Ufe ;   but  yet  I  think  meet  to  instruct  you 
into  our  law. 

"  There  was  an  act  made  in  the  days  of  Pharaoh  the  Great, 
servant  to  our  prince,  that  lest  those  of  a  contrary  religion 
should  multiply  and  grow  too  strong  for  him,  their  males  90 
should  be  thrown  into  the  river.  There  was  also  an  act 
made  in  the  days  of  Nebuchadnezzear  the  Great,  another 
of  his  servants,  that  whoever  would  not  fall  down  and  worship 
his  golden  image,  should  be  thrown  into  a  fiery  furnace. 
There  was  also  an  act  made  in  the  days  of  Darius,  that  whoso,  95 
for  some  time,  called  upon  any  God  but  him,  should  be  cast 
into  the  lions'  den.  Now  the  substance  of  these  laws  this 
rebel  has  broken,  not  only  in  thought  (which  is  not  to  be 
borne)  but  also  in  word  and  deed;  which  must  therefore 
needs  be  intolerable.  100 

"For  that  of  Pharaoh,  his  law  was  made  upon  a  supposi- 
tion, to  prevent  mischief,  no  crime  being  yet  apparent; 
but  here  is  a  crime  apparent.  For  the  second  and  third, 
you  see  he  disputeth  against  our  religion ;  and  for  the  treason 
he  hath  confessed,  he  deservtth  to  die  the  death."  105 

Then  went  the  jury  out,  whose  names  were,  Mr.  BUnd- 
man,  Mr.  No-good,  Mr.  Malice,  Mr.  Love-lust,  Mr.  Live- 
loose,  Mr.  Heady,  Mr.  High-mind,  Mr.  Enmity,  Mr.  Liar, 
Mr.  Cruelty,  Mr.  Hatelight,  and  Mr.  Implacable ;  who  every 
one  gave  in  his  private  verdict  against  him  among  them- no 
selves,  and  afterwards  unanimously  concluded  to  bring  him 
in  guilty  before  the  Judge.  And  first  among  themselves, 
Mr.  Blind-man,  the  foreman,  said,  "I  see  clearly  that  this 
man  is  an  heretic."  Then  said  Mr.  No-good,  "Away  with 
such  a  fellow  from  the  earth."  "Ay,"  said  Mr.  Malice,  "for  115 
I  hate  the  very  looks  of  him."  Then  said  Mr.  Love-lust, 
"I  could  never  endure  him."  "Nor  I,"  said  Mr.  Live- 
loose,  "for  he  would  always  be  condemning  my  way." 
"Hang  him,  hang  him,"  said  Mr.  Heady.     "A  sorry  scrub," 


138  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

120 said  Mr.  High-mind.  "My  heart  riseth  against  him,"  said 
Mr.  Enmity.  "He  is  a  rogue,"  said  Mr.  Liar.  "Hanging 
is  too  good  for  him,"  said  Mr.  Cruelty.  "Let  us  dispatch 
him  out  of  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Hatehght.  Then  said  Mr. 
Implacable,  "Might  I  have  all  the  world  given  me,  I  could 

125  not  be  reconciled  to  him ;  therefore  let  us  forthwith  bring 
him  in  guilty  of  death."  And  so  they  did ;  therefore  he  was 
presently  condemned  to  be  had  from  the  place  where  he  was, 
to  the  place  from  whence  he  came,  and  there  to  be  put  to  the 
most  cruel  death  that  could  be  invented. 

130  They  therefore  brought  him  out,  to  do  with  him  according 
to  their  law ;  and  first  they  scourged  him,  then  they  buffeted 
him,  then  they  lanced  his  flesh  with  knives ;  after  that  they 
stoned  him  with  stones,  then  pricked  him  with  their  swords ; 
and  last  of  all  they  burned  him  to  ashes  at  the  stake.     Thus 

135  came  Faithful  to  his  end. 

Now  I  saw  that  there  stood  behind  the  multitude  a  chariot 
and  a  couple  of  horses,  waiting  for  Faithful,  who  (so  soon  as 
his  adversaries  had  dispatched  him)  was  taken  up  into  it, 
and  straightway  was  carried  up  through  the  clouds,  with 

140 sound  of  trumpet,  the. nearest  way  to  the  Celestial  Gate. 
But  as  for  Christian,  he  had  some  respite,  and  was  remanded 
back  to  prison ;  so  he  there  remained  for  a  space :  but  he 
that  overrules  all  things,  having  the  power  of  their  rage  in  his 
own  hand,  so  wrought  it  about,  that  Christian  for  that  time 

145  escaped  them,  and  went  his  way. 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 

The  Spider  and  the  Bee 
(From  The  Battle  of  the  Books) 

Upon  the  highest  corner  of  a  large  window,  there  dwelt  a 
certain  spider,  swollen  up  to  the  first  magnitude  by  the 
destruction  of   infinite  numbers   of  flies,  whose   spoils    lay 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  139 

scattered  before  the  gates  of  his  palace,  Hke  human  bones 
before  the  cave  of  some  giant.  The  avenues  to  his  castle  5 
were  guarded  with  turnpikes  and  palisadoes,  all  after  the 
modern  way  of  fortification.  After  you  had  passed  several 
coiu^,  you  came  to  the  centre,  wherein  you  might  behold 
the  constable  himself  in  his  own  lodgings,  which  had  windows 
fronting  to  each  avenue,  and  ports  to  sally  out,  upon  all  10 
occasions  of  prey  or  defence.  In  this  mansion  he  had  for 
some  time  dwelt  in  peace  and  plenty,  without  danger  to  his 
person  by  swallows  from  above,  or  to  his  palace  by  brooms 
from  below :  when  it  was  the  pleasure  of  fortune  to  conduct 
thither  a  wandering  bee,  to  whose  curiosity  a  broken  pane  in  15 
the  glass  had  discovered  itself,  and  in  he  went;  where, 
expatiating  a  while,  he  at  last  happened  to  alight  upon  one 
of  the  outward  walls  of  the  spider's  citadel ;  which,  yield- 
ing to  the  unequal  weight,  sunk  down  to  the  very  founda- 
tion. 20 

Thrice  he  endeavoured  to  force  his  passage,  and  thrice  the 
centre  shook.  The  spider  within,  feeling  the  terrible  con- 
vulsion, supposed  at  first  that  nature  was  approaching  to  her 
final  dissolution ;  or  else,  that  Beelzebub,  with  all  his  legions, 
was  come  to  revenge  the  death  of  many  thousands  of  his  25 
subjects,  whom  this  enemy  had  slain  and  devoured.  How- 
ever, he  at  length  valiantly  resolved  to  issue  forth,  and  meet 
his  fate.  Meanwhile  the  bee  had  acquitted  himself  of  his 
toils,  and,  posted  securely  at  some  distance,  was  employed 
in  cleansing  his  wings,  and  disengaging  them  from  the  ragged  30 
remnants  of  the  cobweb.  By  this  time  the  spider  was  ad- 
ventured out,  when,  beholding  the  chasms,  the  ruins,  and 
dilapidations  of  his  fortress,  he  was  very  near  at  his  wit's 
end;  he  stormed  and  swore  like  a  madman,  and  swelled 
till  he  was  ready  to  burst.  At  length,  casting  his  eye  upon  35 
the  bee,  and  wisely  gathering  causes  from  events,  (for  they 
knew  each  other  by  sight),  A  plague  split  you,  said  he ;  is  it 


140  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

you,  with  a  vengeance,  that  have  made  this  Htter  here? 
could  not  you  look  before  you,  and  be  d — d  ?  do  you  think 

40 1  have  nothing  else  to  do  (in  the  devil's  name)  but  to  mend 
and  repair  after  you  ?  —  Good  words,  friend,  said  the  bee, 
(having  now  pruned  himself,  and  being  disposed  to  droll), 
I'll  give  you  my  hand  and  word  to  come  near  your  kennel  no 
more :   I  was  never  in  such  a  confounded  pickle  since  I  was 

45  born.  —  Sirrah,  replied  the  spider,  if  it  were  not  for  breaking 
an  old  custom  in  our  family,  never  to  stir  abroad  against  an 
enemy,  I  should  come  and  teach  you  better  manners.  —  I 
pray  have  patience,  said  the  bee,  or  you  will  spend  your 
substance,  and,  for  aught  I  see,  you  may  stand  in  need  of 

50  it  all  towards  the  repair  of  your  house.  —  Rogue,  rogue, 
replied  the  spider,  yet,  methinks  you  should  have  more 
respect  to  a  person,  whom  all  the  world  allows  to  be  so  much 
your  better.  —  By  my  troth,  said  the  bee,  the  comparison 
will  amount  to  a  very  good  jest ;  and  you  will  do  me  a  favour 

65  to  let  me  know  the  reasons  that  all  the  world  is  pleased  to  use 
in  so  hopeful  a  dispute.  At  this  the  spider,  having  swelled 
himself  into  the  size  and  posture  of  a  disputant,  began  his 
argument  in  the  true  spirit  of  controversy,  with  a  resolution 
to  be  heartily  scurrilous  and  angry,  to  urge  on  his  own  reasons, 

60  without  the  least  regard  to  the  answers  or  objections  of  his 
opposite;  and  fully  predetermined  in  his  mind  against  all 
conviction. 

Not  to  disparage  myself,  said  he,  by  the  comparison  with 
such  a  rascal,  what  art  thou  but  a  vagabond  without  house 

65  or  home,  without  stock  or  inheritance,  born  to  no  possession 
of  your  own  but  a  pair  of  wings  and  a  drone-pipe  ?  Your  live- 
lihood is  an  universal  plunder  upon  nature;  a  freebooter 
over  fields  and  gardens ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  stealing,  will 
rob  a  nettle  as  readily  as  a  violet.     Whereas  I  am  a  domestic 

70  animal,  furnished  with  a  native  stock  within  myself.  This 
large  castle  (to  shew  my  improvements  in  the  mathematics) 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  141 

is  all  built  with  my  own  hands,  and  the  materials  extracted 
altogether  out  of  mine  own  person. 

I  am  glad,  answered  the  bee,  to  hear  you  grant  at  least 
that  I  am  come  honestly  by  my  wings  and  my  voice;    for 75 
then,  it  seems,  I  am  obliged  to  Heaven  alone  for  my  jflights 
and  my  music ;   and  Providence  would  never  have  bestowed 
of  me  two  such  gifts  without  designing  them  for  the  noblest 
ends.     I  visit  indeed  all  the  flowers  and  blossoms  of  the  field  . 
and  garden ;    but  whatever  I  collect  from  thence  enriches  80 
myself,  without  the  least  injury  to  their  beauty,  their  smell, 
or  their  taste.     Now  for  you  and  your  skill  in  architecture 
and  other  mathematics,  I  have  little  to  say :  in  that  building 
of  yours  there  might,  for  aught  I  know,  have  been  labour 
and  method  enough;    but  by  woful  experience  for  us  both 85 
'tis  too  plain  the  materials  are  naught ;   and  I  hope  you  will 
henceforth  take  warning,  and  consider  duration  and  matter 
as  well  as  method  and  art.     You  boast,  indeed,  of  being 
obliged  to  no  other  creature,  but  of  drawing  and  spinning 
out  all  from  yourself ;   that  is  to  say,  if  we  may  judge  of  the  90 
liquor  in  the  vessel  by  what  issues  out,  you  possess  a  good 
plentiful  store  of  dirt  and  poison  in  your  breast ;  and    though 
I  would  by  no  means  lessen  or  disparage  your  genuine  stock 
of  either,  yet,  I  doubt  you  are  somewhat  obliged  for  an  in- 
crease of  both  to  a  little  foreign  assistance.     Your  inherent  95 
portion  of  dirt  does  not  fail  of  acquisitions  by  sweepings 
exhaled  from  below :    and  one  insect  furnishes  you  with  a 
share  of  poison  to  destroy  another.     So  that,  in  short,  the 
question  comes  all  to  this ;  whether  is  the  nobler  being  of  the 
two,  that  which,  by  a  lazy  contemplation  of  four  inches  100 
round,  by  an  overweening  pride,  which  feeding  and  engen- 
dering on  itself  turns  all  into  venom,  producing  nothing  at  all, 
but  fly  bane  and  a  cobweb ;   or  that  which,  by  an  universal 
range,  with  long  search,  much  study,  true  judgment,  and 
distinction  of  things,  brings  home  honey  and  wax?  105 


142  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

This  dispute  was  managed  with  such  eagerness,  clamour, 
and  warmth,  that  the  two  parties  of  books,  in  arms  below, 
stood  silent  a  while,  waiting  in  suspense  what  would  be  the 
issue ;    which   was   not   long   undetermined ;    for   the   bee, 

110  grown  impatient  at  so  much  loss  of  time,  fled  straight  away 
to  a  bed  of  roses  without  looking  for  a  reply;    and  left  the 
'•        spider,  like  an  orator,  collected  in  himself,  and  just  prepared 
.    to  burst  out. 

It  happened  upon  this  emergency,  that  ^Esop  broke  silence 

115  first.  He  had  been  of  late  most  barbarously  treated  by  a 
strange  eifect  of  the  regent's  humanity,  who  had  tore  off  his 
title-page,  sorely  defaced  one  half  of  his  leaves,  and  chained 
him  fast  among  a  shelf  of  moderns.  Where,  soon  discovering 
how  high  the  quarrel  was  likely  to  proceed,  he  tried  all  his 

120  arts,  and  turned  himself  to  a  thousand  forms.  At  length,  in 
the  borrowed  shape  of  an  ass,  the  regent  mistook  him  for  a 
modern ;  by  which  means  he  had  time  and  opportunity  to 
escape  to  the  ancients,  just  when  the  spider  and  the  bee  were 
entering  into  their  contest;    to  which  he  gave  his  attention 

125 with  a  world  of  pleasure;  and  when  it  was  ended,  swore 
in  the  loudest  key,  that  in  all  his  life  he  had  never  known  two 
cases  so  parallel  and  adapt  to  each  other,  as  that  in  the  win- 
dow, and  this  upon  the  shelves.  The  disputants,  said  he, 
have  admirably  managed  the  dispute  between  them,  have 

130  taken  in  the  full  strength  of  all  that  is  to  be  said  on  both 
sides,  and  exhausted  the  substance  of  every  argument  pro 
and  con. 

It  is  but  to  adjust  the  reasonings  of  both  to  the  present 
quarrel,  then  to  compare  and  apply  the  labours  and  fruits 

135  of   each,    as    the   bee   hath    learnedly  deduced   them,   and 
we  shall  find  the  conclusion  fall  plain  and  close  upon  the 
moderns  and  us.     For,  pray,  gentlemen,  was  ever  anything 
,  so  modern  as  the  spider  in  his  air,  his  turns,  and  his  para- 
doxes?    He  argues  in  the  behalf  of  you  his  brethren,  and 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  143 

himself,  with  many  boastings  of  his  native  stock  and  great  140 
genius ;    that  he  spins  and  spits  wholly  from  himself,  and 
scorns  to  own  any  obligation  or  assistance  from  without. 
Then  he  displays  to  you  his  great  skill  in  architecture,  and 
improvement  in  the  mathematics.     To  all  this  the  bee,  as  an 
advocate  retained  by  us  the  ancients,  thinks  fit  to  answer :  145 
that  if  one  may  judge  of  the  great  genius  or  inventions  of  the 
moderns  by  what  they  have  produced,  you  will  hardly  have 
countenance  to  bear  you  out,  in  boasting  of  either.     Erect 
your  schemes  with  as  much  method  and  skill  as  you  please ; 
yet  if  the  materials  be  nothing  but  dirt,  spun  out  of  your  150 
own  entrails,  the  edifice  will  conclude  at  last  in  a  cobweb; 
the  duration  of  which,  like  that  of  other  spiders'  webs,  may 
be  imputed  to  their  being  forgotten,  or  neglected,  or  hid  in 
a  corner.     For  anything  else  of  genuine  that  the  moderns 
may  pretend  to,  I  cannot  recollect ;  unless  it  be  a  large  vein  155 
of  wrangling  and  satire,  much  of  a  nature  and  substance 
with  the  spider's  poison;    which,  however  they  pretend  to 
spit  wholly  out  of  themselves,  is  improved  by  the  same  arts, 
by  feeding  upon  the  insects  and  vermin  of  the  age.     As  for 
us  the  ancients,  we  are  content,  with  the  bee,  to  pretend  to  160 
nothing  of  our  own,  beyond  our  wings  and  our  voice :   that 
is  to  say,  our  flights  and  our  language.     For  the  rest,  what- 
ever we  have  got  hath  been  by  infinite  labour  and  search, 
and  ranging  through  every  corner  of  nature ;    the  difference 
is,  that  instead  of  dirt  and  poison  we  have  rather  chosen  165 
to  fill  our  hives  with  honey  and  wax ;   thus  furnishing  man- 
kind with  the  two  noblest  of  things,  which  are  sweetness  and 
light. 


144  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

An  Argument  to  prove  that 
THE  ABOLISHING   OF   CHRISTIANITY  IN  ENGLAND 
may,  as  things  now  stand,  be  attended  with  some  in- 
conveniences, and  perhaps  not  produce  those 
many  good  effects  proposed  thereby 

(Written  in  the  year  1708) 

I  am  very  sensible  what  a  weakness  and  presumption  it  is, 
to  reason  against  the  general  humour  and  disposition  of  the 
world.  I  remember  it  was  with  great  justice,  and  a  due 
regard  to  the  freedom  both  of  the  public  and  the  press,  for- 
5  bidden  upon  several  penalties  to  write,  or  discourse,  or  lay 
wagers  against  the  Union  even  before  it  was  confirmed  by 
Parliament,  because  that  was  looked  upon  as  a  design  to 
oppose  the  current  of  the  people,  which  besides  the  folly  of 
it,  is  a  manifest  breach  of  the  fundamental  law  that  makes 

10  this  majority  of  opinion  the  voice  of  God.  In  like  manner, 
and  for  the  very  same  reasons,  it  may  perhaps  be  neither  safe 
nor  prudent  to  argue  against  the  abolishing  of  Christianity : 
at  a  juncture  when  all  parties  seem  so  unanimously  deter- 
mined upon  the  point,  as  we  cannot  but  allow  from  their 

15  actions,  their  discourses,  and  their  writings.  However,  I 
know  not  how,  whether  from  the  affectation  of  singularity, 
or  the  perverseness  of  human  nature,  but  so  it  unhappily  falls 
out  that  I  cannot  be  entirely  of  this  opinion.  Nay,  though 
I  were  sure  an  order  were  issued  for  my  immediate  prosecution 

20  by  the  Attorney-General,  I  should  still  confess  that  in  the 
present  posture  of  our  affairs  at  home  or  abroad,  I  do  not  yet 
see  the  absolute  necessity  of  extirpating  the  Christian  reli- 
gion from  among  us. 

This  may  perhaps  appear  too  great  a  paradox  even  for  our 

25  wise  and  paradoxical  age  to  endure ;  therefore  I  shall  handle 
it  with  all  tenderness,  and  with  the  utmost  deference  to  that 
great  and  profound  majority  which  is  of  another  sentiment. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  145 

However,  since  the  undertakers  propose  such  wonderful 
advantages  to  the  nation  by  this  project,  and  advance  many 
plausible  objections  against  the  system  of  Christianity,  I  shall  30 
briefly  consider  the  strength  of  both,  fairly  allow  them  their 
greatest  weight,  and  offer  such  answers  as  I  think  most, 
reasonable.  After  which  I  will  beg  leave  to  shew  what 
inconveniences  may  possibly  happen  by  such  an  innovation 
in  the  present  posture  of  our  affairs.  35 

First,  one  great  advantage  proposed  by  the  abolishing  of 
Christianity,  is,  that  it  would  very  much  enlarge  and  estab- 
lish liberty  of  conscience,  that  great  bulwark  of  our  nation, 
and  of  the  protestant  religion ;  which  is  still  too  much  limited 
by  priestcraft,  notwithstanding  all  the  good  intentions  of  the  40 
legislature,  as  we  have  lately  found  by  a  severe  instance.  For 
it  is  confidently  reported  that  two  young  gentlemen  of  real 
hopes,  bright  wit,  and  profound  judgment,  who,  upon  a 
thorough  examination  of  causes  and  effects,  and  by  the  mere 
force  of  natural  abilities,  without  the  least  tincture  of  learn-  45 
ing,  having  made  a  discovery  that  there  was  no  God,  and 
generously  communicating  their  thoughts  for  the  good  of 
the  public,  were  some  time  ago,  by  an  unparalleled  severity, 
and  upon  I  know  not  what  obsolete  law,  broke  for  blasphemy. 
And  as  it  has  been  wisely  observed,  if  persecution  once  begins,  50 
no  man  alive  knows  how  far  it  may  reach,  or  where  it  will  end. 

In  answer  to  all  which,  with  deference  to  wiser  judgments, 
I  think  this  rather  shews  the  necessity  of  a  nominal  religion 
among  us.  Great  wits  love  to  be  free  with  the  highest 
objects ;  and  if  they  cannot  be  allowed  a  God  to  revile  55 
or  renounce,  they  will  speak  evil  of  dignities,  abuse  the  govern- 
ment, and  reflect  upon  the  ministry;  which  I  am  sure  few 
will  deny  to  be  of  much  more  pernicious  consequence,  accord- 
ing to  the  saying  of  Tiberius,  deorum  offensa  diis  cures.  As 
to  the  particular  fact  related,  I  think  it  is  not  fair  to  argue  60 
from  one  instance,  perhaps  another  cannot  be  produced : 


146  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

yet  (to  the  comfort  of  all  those  who  may  be  apprehensive 
of  persecution)  blasphemy,  we  know,  is  freely  spoken  a 
million  of  times  in  every  coffee-house  and  tavern,  or  wherever 

65  else  good  company  meet.  It  must  be  allowed,  indeed,  that 
to  break  an  English  free-born  officer,  only  for  blasphemy, 
was,  to  speak  the  gentlest  of  such  an  action,  a  very  high 
strain  of  absolute  power.  Little  can  be  said  in  excuse  for  the 
general ;   perhaps  he  was  afraid  it  might  give  offence  to  the 

70  allies,  among  whom,  for  aught  we  know,  it  may  be  the  cus- 
tom of  the  country  to  believe  a  God.  But  if  he  argued,  as 
some  have  done,  upon  a  mistaken  principle,  that  an  officer 
who  is  guilty  of  speaking  blasphemy,  may  some  time  or  other 
proceed  so  far  as  to  raise  a  mutiny,  the  consequence  is  by  no 

75  means  to  be  admitted  ;  for  surely  the  commander  of  an  Eng- 
lish army  is  likely  to  be  but  ill  obeyed,  whose  soldiers  fear 
and  reverence  him  as  little  as  they  do  a  Deity. 


Another  advantage  proposed  by  the  abolishing  of  Chris- 
tianity, is,  the  clear  gain  of  one  day  in  seven,  which  is  now 

80  entirely  lost,  and  consequently  the  kingdom  one  seventh  less 
considerable  in  trade,  business,  and  pleasure;  beside  the 
loss  to  the  public  of  so  many  stately  structures,  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  clergy,  which  might  be  converted  into  play- 
houses,   market-houses,    exchanges,    common    dormitories, 

85  and  other  public  edifices. 

I  hope  I  shall  be  forgiven  a  hard  word,  if  I  call  this  a  perfect 
cavil.  I  readily  own  there  has  been  an  old  custom,  time  out 
of  mind,  for  people  to  assemble  in  the  churches  every  Sunday, 
and  that  shops  are  still  frequently  shut,  in  order,  as  it  is 

90  conceived,  to  preserve  the  memory  of  that  ancient  practice ; 
but  how  this  can  prove  a  hindrance  to  business  or  pleasure, 
is  hard  to  imagine.  What  if  the  men  of  pleasure  are  forced, 
one  day  in  the  week,  to  game  at  home  instead  of  the  chocolate- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  147 

houses?  are  not  the  taverns  and  coffee-houses  open?  can 
there  be  a  more  convenient  season  for  taking  a  dose  of  physic  ?  95 
is  not  that  the  chief  day  for  traders  to  sum  up  the  accounts 
of  the  week,  and  for  lawyers  to  prepare  their  briefs?  But 
I  would  fain  know,  how  it  can  be  pretended,  that  the  churches 
are  misapplied?  where  are  more  appointments  and  rendez- 
vouses of  gallantry  ?  where  more  care  to  appear  in  the  fore- 100 
most  box,  with  greater  advantage  of  dress  ?  where  more  meet- 
ings for  business,  where  more  bargains  driven  of  all  sorts, 
and  where  so  many  conveniences  or  enticements  to  sleep? 


It  is  likewise  proposed  as  a  great  advantage  to  the  public, 
that  if  we  once  discard  the  system  of  the  gospel,  all  religion  105 
will  of  course  be  banished  for  ever ;  and  consequently,  along 
with  it,  those  grievous  prejudices  of  education,  which,  under 
the  names  of  virtue,  conscience,  honour,  justice,  and  the  like, 
are  so  apt  to  disturb  the  peace  of  human  minds,  and  the  no- 
tions whereof  are  so  hard  to  be  eradicated,  by  right  reason,  llO 
or  freethinking,  sometimes  during  the  whole  course  of  our 
lives. 

Here  first  I  observe,  how  difficult  it  is  to  get  rid  of  a  phrase 
which  the  world  is  once  grown  fond  of,  though  the  occasion 
that  first  produced  it  be  entirely  taken  away.  For  several  115 
years  past,  if  a  man  had  but  an  ill-favoured  nose,  the  deep- 
thinkers  of  the  age  would,  some  way  or  other,  contrive  to 
impute  the  cause  to  the  prejudice  of  his  education.  From 
-this  fountain  were  said  to  be  derived  all  our  foolish  notions  of 
justice,  piety,  love  of  our  country ;  all  our  opinions  of  God,  120 
or  a  future  state.  Heaven,  Hell,  and  the  like :  and  there 
might  formerly  perhaps  have  been  some  pretence  for  this 
charge.  But  so  effectual  care  has  been  taken  to  remove  those 
prejudices,  by  an  entire  change  in  the  methods  of  education, 
that  (with  honour  I  mention  it  to  our  polite  innovators)  the  125 


148  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

young  gentlemen  who  are  now  on  the  scene  seem  to  have  not 
the  least  tincture  left  of  those  infusions,  or  string  of  those 
weeds  :  and,  by  consequence,  the  reason  for  abolishing  nomi- 
nal Christianity  upon  that  pretext,  is  wholly  ceased. 

130  For  the  rest,  it  may  perhaps  admit  a  controversy  whether 
the  banishing  of  all  notions  of  religion  whatsoever  would  be 
convenient  for  the  vulgar.  Not  that  I  am  in  the  least  of 
opinion  with  those,  who  hold  religion  to  have  been  the  inven- 
tion of  politicians,  to  keep  the  lower  part  of  the  world  in  awe, 

135  by  the  fear  of  invisible  powers ;  unless  mankind  were  then 
very  diflPerent  to  what  it  is  now :  for  I  look  upon  the  mass  or 
body  of  our  people  here  in  England,  to  be  as  freethinkers, 
that  is  to  say,  as  staunch  unbelievers,  as  any  of  the  highest 
rank.     But   I    conceive   some    scattered    notions    about   a 

140  superior  power,  to  be  of  singular  use  for  the  common  people, 
as  furnishing  excellent  materials  to  keep  children  quiet  when 
they  grow  peevish,  and  providing  topics  of  amusement,  in  a 
tedious  winter  night. 


Having  thus  considered  the  most  important  objections 
145  against  Christianity,  and  the  chief  advantages  proposed 
by  the  abolishing  thereof,  I  shall  now,  with  equal  deference 
and  submission  to  wiser  judgments  as  before,  proceed  to 
mention  a  few  inconveniences  that  may  happen  if  the  gospel 
should  be  repealed,  which  perhaps  the  projectors  may  not 
150  have  sufficiently  considered. 

And  first,  I  am  very  sensible  how  much  the  gentlemen  of  wit 
and  pleasure  are  apt  to  murmur,  and  be  choked  at  the  sight 
of  so  many  daggled-tail  parsons,  who  happen  to  fall  in  their 
way  and  offend  their  eyes ;  but  at  the  same  time,  these  wise 
155  reformers  do  not  consider  what  an  advantage  and  felicity 
it  is  for  great  wits  to  be  always  provided  with  objects  of 
scorn  and  contempt,  in  order  to  exercise  and  improve  their 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  149 

talents,  and  divert  their  spleen  from  falling  on  each  other  or 
on  themselves ;  especially  when  all  this  may  be  done  without 
the  least  imaginable  danger  to  their  persons.  160 

And  to  urge  another  argument  of  a  parallel  nature :  if 
Christianity  were  once  abolished,  how  could  the  freethinkers, 
the  strong  reasoners,  and  the  men  of  profound  learning,  be 
able  to  find  another  subject  so  calculated  in  all  points  whereon 
to  display  their  abilities  ?  what  wonderful  productions  of  wit  165 
should  we  be  deprived  of,  from  those  whose  genius  by  con- 
tinual practice  has  been  wholly  turned  upon  raillery  and 
invectives  against  religion,  and  would  therefore  never  be 
able  to  shine  or  distinguish  themselves  upon  any  other 
subject !  we  are  daily  complaining  of  the  great  decline  of  wit  170 
among  us,  and  would  we  take  away  the  greatest,  perhaps  the 
only,  topic  we  have  left?  who  would  ever  have  suspected 
Asgill  for  a  wit,  or  Toland  for  a  philosopher,  if  the  inex- 
haustible stock  of  Christianity  had  not  been  at  hand,  to 
provide  them  with  materials  ?  what  other  subject,  through  175 
all  art  or  nature,  could  have  produced  Tindal  for  a  profound 
author,  or  furnished  him  with  readers  ?  it  is  the  wise  choice 
of  the  subject,  that  alone  adorns  and  distinguishes  the  writer. 
For,  had  a  hundred  such  pens  as  these  been  employed  on  the 
side  of  religion,  they  would  have  immediately  sunk  into  180 
silence  and  oblivion. 


Upon  the  whole,  if  it  shall  still  be  thought  for  the  benefit 
of  church  and  state  that  Christianity  be  abolished,  I  conceive, 
however,  it  may  be  more  convenient  to  defer  the  execution  to 
a  time  of  peace ;  and  not  venture  in  this  conjuncture  to  dis- 185 
oblige  our  allies,  who,  as  it  falls  out,  are  all  Christians,  and 
many  of  them,  by  the  prejudices  of  their  education,  so 
bigoted  as  to  place  a  sort  of  pride  in  the  appellation.  If 
upon  being  rejected  by  them  we  are  to  trust  an  alliance  with 


150  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

190  the  Turk,  we  shall  find  ourselves  much  deceived :  for,  as  he  is 
too  remote,  and  generally  engaged  in  war  with  the  Persian 
emperor,  so  his  people  would  be  more  scandalized  at  our 
infidehty  than  our  Christian  neighbours.  For  the  Turks  are 
not  only  strict  observers  of  religious  worship,  but,  what  is 

195  worse,  believe  a  God ;  which  is  more  than  is  required  of  us, 
even  while  we  preserve  the  name  of  Christians. 

To  conclude :  whatever  some  may  think  of  the  great 
advantages  to  trade  by  this  favourite  scheme,  I  do  very 
much  apprehend,  that  in  six  months'  time  after  the  act  is 

200  passed  for  the  extirpation  of  the  gospel,  the  Bank  and  East 
India  stock  may  fall  at  least  one  per  cent.  And  since  that  is 
fifty  times  more  than  ever  the  wisdom  of  our  age  thought 
fit  to  venture,  for  the  preservation  of  Christianity,  there  is 
no  reason  we  should  be  at  so  great  a  loss,  merely  for  the  sake 

205  of  destroying  it. 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

The  Education  of  Women 
(From  An  Essay  upon  Projects) 

To  such  whose  genius  would  lead  them  to  it  I  would  deny 
no  sort  of  learning ;  but  the  chief  thing  in  general  is  to  culti- 
vate the  understandings  of  the  sex,  that  they  may  be  capable 
of  all  sorts  of  conversation;  that,  their  parts  and  judgments 
5  being  improved,  they  may  be  as  profitable  in  their  conversa- 
tion as  they  are  pleasant. 

Women,  in  my  observation,  have  little  or  no  difference  in 
them,  but  as  they  are  or  are  not  distinguished  by  education. 
Tempers  indeed  may  in  some  degree  influence  them,  but  the 
10  main  distinguishing  part  is  their  breeding. 

The  whole  sex  are  generally  quick  and  sharp.  I  believe 
I  may  be  allowed  to  say  generally  so,  for  you  rarely  see  them 
lumpish  and  heavy  when  they  are  children,  as  boys  will  often 


DANIEL  DEFOE  151 

be.     If  a  woman  be  well  bred,  and  taught  tbe  proper  manage- 
ment of  her  natural  wit,  she  proves  generally  very  sensible  15 
and  retentive ;  and  without  partiality,  a  woman  of  sense  and 
manners  is  the  finest  and  most  delicate  part  of  God's  creation, 
the  glory  of  her  Maker,  and  the  great  instance  of  His  singular 
regard  to  man,  His  darling  creature,  to  whom  He  gave  the 
best  gift  either  God  could  bestow  or  man  receive.     And  'tis  20 
the  sordidest  piece  of  folly  and  ingratitude  in  the  world  to 
withhold  from  the  sex  the  due  lustre  which  the  advantages  of 
education  give  to  the  natural  beauty  of  their  minds. 
■  A  woman  well  bred  and  well  taught,  furnished  with  the 
additional  accomplishments  of  knowledge  and  behavior,  is  a  25 
creature  without  comparison;    her  society  is  the  emblem  of 
sublimer  enjoyments ;  her  person  is  angelic  and  her  conversa- 
tion heavenly ;   she  is  all  softness  and  sweetness,  peace,  love, 
wit,  and  delight.     She  is  every  way  suitable  to  the  sublimest 
wish,  and  the  man  that  has  such  a  one  to  his  portion  has  30 ' 
nothing  to  do  but  to  rejoice  in  her  and  be  thankful. 

On  the  other  hand,  suppose  her  to  be  the  very  same  woman, 
and  rob  her  of  the  benefit  of  education,  and  it  follows  thus  :  — 

If  her  temper  be  good,  want  of  education  makes  her  soft  and 
easy.  Her  wit,  for  want  of  teaching,  makes  her  impertinent  35 
and  talkative.  Her  knowledge,  for  want  of  judgment  and 
experience,  makes  her  fanciful  and  whimsical.  If  her  temper 
be  bad,  want  of  breeding  makes  her  worse,  and  she  grows 
haughty,  insolent,  and  loud.  If  she  be  passionate,  want  of 
manners  makes  her  termagant  and  a  scold,  which  is  much  at  40 
one  with  lunatic.  If  she  be  proud,  want  of  discretion  (which 
still  is  breeding)  makes  her  conceited,  fantastic,  and  ridiculous. 
And  from  these  she  degenerates  to  be  turbulent,  clangorous, 
noisy,  nasty,  and  the  devil. 

Methinks  mankind  for  their  own  sakes  —  since,  say  what  45 
we  will  of  the  women,  we  all  think  fit  at  one  time  or  other  to 
be  concerned  with  them  —  should  take  some  care  to  breed 


152  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

them  up  to  be  suitable  and  serviceable,  if  they  expected  no 
such  thing  as  delight  from  them.     Bless  us !  what  care  do 

50  we  take  to  breed  up  a  good  horse  and  to  break  him  well ! 
and  what  a  value  do  we  put  upon  him  when  it  is  done,  and  all 
because  he  should  be  fit  for  our  use  !  and  why  not  a  woman  ? 
Since  all  her  ornaments  and  beauty  without  suitable  behavior 
is  a  cheat  in  nature,  like  the  false  tradesman,  who  puts  the 

55  best  of  his  goods  uppermost,  that  the  buyer  may  think  the 
rest  are  of  the  same  goodness. 


But  to  come  closer  to  the  business,  the  great  distinguishing 
difference  which  is  seen  in  the  world  between  men  and  women 
is  in  their  education,  and  this  is  manifested  by  comparing  it 

60  with  the  difference  between  one  man  or  woman  and  another. 

And  herein  it  is  that  I  take  upon  me  to  make  such  a  bold 

assertion  that  all  the  world  are  mistaken  in  their  practice 

about  women;   for  I  cannot  think  that  God  Almighty  ever 

made  them  so  delicate,  so  glorious  creatures,  and  furnished 

65  them  with  such  charms,  so  agreeable  and  so  delightful  to 
mankind,  with  souls  capable  of  the  same  accomplishments 
with  men,  and  all  to  be  only  stewards  of  our  houses,  cooks, 
and  slaves. 

Not  that  I  am  for  exalting  the  female  government  in  the 

70  least ;  but,  in  short,  I  would  have  men  take  women  for  com- 
panions, and  educate  them  to  be  fit  for  it.  A  woman  of 
sense  and  breeding  will  scorn  as  much  to  encroach  upon  the 
prerogative  of  the  man  as  a  man  of  sense  will  scorn  to  op- 
press the  weakness  of  the  woman.     But  if  the  women's  souls 

75  were  refined  and  improved  by  teaching,  that  word  would  be 
lost ;  to  say,  the  weakness  of  the  sex  as  to  judgment,  would  be 
nonsense,  for  ignorance  and  folly  would  be  no  more  found 
among  women  than  men.  I  remember  a  passage  which  I 
heard  from  a  very  fine  woman;   she  had  wit  and  capacity 


DANIEL  DEFOE  153 

enough,  an  extraordinary  shape  and  face,  and  a  great  fortune,  80 
but  had  been  cloistered  up  all  her  time,  and,  for  fear  of  being 
stolen,  had  not  had  the  liberty  of  being  taught  the  common 
necessary  knowledge  of  woman's  affairs ;  and  when  she  came 
to  converse  in  the  world,  her  natural  wit  made  her  so  sensible 
of  the  want  of  education,  that  she  gave  this  short  reflection  85 
on  herself :  —  "I  am  ashamed  to  talk  with  my  very  maids," 
says  she,  "for  I  don't  know  when  they  do  right  or  wrong. 
I  had  more  need  go  to  school  than  be  married." 

I  need  not  enlarge  on  the  loss  the  defect  of  education  is  to 
the  sex,  nor  argue  the  benefit  of  the  contrary  practice ;  'tis  90 
a-  thing  will  be  more  easily  granted  than  remedied.  This 
chapter  is  but  an  essay  at  the  thing,  and  I  refer  the  practice 
to  those  happy  days,  if  ever  they  shall  be,  when  men  shall  be 
wise  enough  to  mend  it. 


Author's  Preface 
(From  Robinson  Crusoe) 

If  ever  the  story  of  any  private  man's  adventures  in  the 
world  were  worth  making  public,  and  were  acceptable 
when  published,  the  Editor  of  this  account  thinks  this  will 
be  so. 

The  wonders  of  this  man's  life  exceed  all  that  (he  thinks)  5 
is  to  be  found  extant ;   the  life  of  one  man  being  scarce  ca- 
pable of  greater  variety. 

The  story  is  told  with  modesty,  with  seriousness,  and  with 
a  religious  application  of  events  to  the  uses  to  which  wise 
men  always  apply  them,  viz.,  to  the  instruction  of  others  by  10 
this  example,  and  to  justify  and  honour  the  wisdom  of  Provi- 
dence in  all  the  variety  of  our  circumstances,  let  them  happen 
how  they  will. 

The  Editor  believes  the  thing  to  be  a  just  history  of  fact ; 
neither  is  there  any  appearance  of  fiction  in  it ;  and,  however,  15 


154  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

thinks,  because  all  such  things  are  despatched,  that  the  im- 
provement of  it,  as  well  to  the  diversion  as  to  the  instruction 
of  the  reader,  will  be  the  same.  And  as  such,  he  thinks, 
without  farther  compliment  to  the  world,  he  does  them  a 
20  great  service  in  the  publication. 

Crusoe's  Situation  in  Life 

I  was  born  in  the  year  1632,  in  the  city  of  York,  of  a  good 
family,  though  not  of  that  country,  my  father  being  a  for- 
eigner of  Bremen,  who  settled  first  at  Hull.  He  got  a  good 
estate  by  merchandise,  and  leaving  off  his  trade,  lived  after- 
5  ward  at  York,  from  whence  he  had  married  my  mother, 
whose  relations  were  named  Robinson,  a  very  good  family  in 
that  country,  and  from  whom  I  was  called  Robinson  Kreutz- 
naer;  but  by  the  usual  corruption  of  words  in  England  we 
are  now  called,  nay,  we  call  ourselves,  and  write  our  name, 

10  Crusoe,  and  so  my  companions  always  called  me. 

I  had  two  elder  brothers,  one  of  which  was  lieutenant- 
colonel  to  an  English  regiment  of  foot  in  Flanders,  formerly 
commanded  by  the  famous  Colonel  Lockhart,  and  was 
killed  at  the  battle  near  Dunkirk  against  the  Spaniards; 

15  what  became  of  my  second  brother  I  never  knew,  any  more 
than  my  father  and  mother  did  know  what  was  become  of 
me. 

Being  the  third  son  of  the  family,  and  not  bred  to  any 
trade,  my  head  began  to  be  filled  very  early  with  rambling 

20  thoughts.  My  father,  who  was  very  ancient,  had  given  me 
a  competent  share  of  learning,  as  far  as  house-education  and  a 
country  free  school  generally  goes,  and  designed  me  for  the 
law ;  but  I  would  be  satisfied  with  nothing  but  going  to  sea ; 
and  my  inclination  to  this  led  me  so  strongly  against  the 

25  will,  naji,  the  commands,  of  my  father,  and  against  all  the 
entreaties  and  persuasions  of  my  mother  and  other  friends, 


DANIEL  DEFOE  155 

that  there  seemed  to  be  something  fatal  in  that  propension 
of  nature  tending  directly  to  the  life  of  misery  which  was  to 
befall  me. 

Crusoe's  Landing  on  the  Desert  Island 

After  we  had  rowed,  or  rather  driven,  about  a  league  and 
a  half,  as  we  reckoned  it,  a  raging  wave,  mountain-like,  came 
rolling  astern  of  us,  and  plainly  bade  us  expect  the  coup  de 
grace.  In  a  word,  it  took  us  in  such  a  fury,  that  it  overset  the 
boat  at  once;  and  separating  us,  as  well  from  the  boat  as 5 
from  one  another,  gave  us  not  time  hardly  to  say,  "O  God !" 
for  we  were  all  swallowed  up  in  a  moment. 

Nothing  can  describe  the  confusion  of  thought  which  I 
felt  when  I  sunk  into  the  water;  for  though  I  swam  very 
well,  yet  I  could  not  deliver  myself  from  the  waves  so  as  to  lO 
draw  breath,  till  that  wave  having  driven  me,  or  rather 
carried  me,  a  vast  way  on  toward  the  shore,  and  having 
spent  itself,  went  back,  and  left  me  upon  the  land  almost  dry, 
but  half  dead  with  the  water  I  took  in.  I  had  so  much  pres- 
ence of  mind,  as  well  as  breath  left,  that  seeing  myself  15 
nearer  the  mainland  than  I  expected,  I  got  upon  my  feet, 
and  endeavored  to  make  on  towards  the  land  as,  fast  as  I 
could,  before  another  wave  should  return  and  take  me  up 
again.  But  I  soon  found  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  it; 
for  I  saw  the  sea  come  after  me  as  high  as  a  great  hill,  and  20 
as  furious  as  an  enemy,  which  I  had  no  means  or  strength 
to  contend  with.  My  business  was  to  hold  my  breath, 
and  raise  myself  upon  the  water,  if  I  could ;  and  so  by 
swimming,  to  preserve  my  breathing,  and  pilot  myself  towards 
the  shore,  if  possible :  my  greatest  concern  now  being,  that  25 
the  sea,  as  it  would  carry  me  a  great  way  towards  the  shore 
when  it  came  on,  might  not  carry  me  back  again  with  it  when 
it  gave  back  towards  the  sea. 


156  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  wave  that  came  upon  me  again,  buried  me  at  once 

30  twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep  in  its  own  body,  and  I  could  feel 
myself  carried  with  a  mighty  force  and  swiftness  towards 
the  shore  a  very  great  way ;  but  I  held  my  breath,  and  as- 
sisted myself  to  swim  still  forward  with  all  my  might.  I  was 
ready  to  burst  with  holding  my  breath,  when,  as  I  felt  my- 

35  self  rising  up,  so,  to  my  immediate  relief,  I  found  my  head 
and  hands  shoot  out  above  the  surface  of  the  water ;  and 
though  it  was  not  two  seconds  of  time  that  I  could  keep 
myself  so,  yet  it  relieved  me  greatly,  gave  me  breath  and 
new  courage.     I  was  covered  again  with  water  a  good  while, 

40 but  not  so  long  but  I  held  it  out;  and  finding  the  water 
had  spent  itself,  and  began  to  return,  I  struck  forward  against 
the  return  of  the  waves,  and  felt  ground  again  with  my 
feet.  I  stood  still  a  few  moments  to  recover  breath,  and 
till  the  water  went  from  me,  and  then  took  to  my  heels  and 

45  ran  with  what  strength  I  had  farther  towards  the  shore. 
But  neither  would  this  deliver  me  from  the  fury  of  the  sea, 
which  came  pouring  in  after  me  again,  and  twice  more  I  was 
lifted  up  by  the  waves  and  carried  forwards  as  before,  the 
shore  being  very  flat. 

50  The  last  time  of  these  two  had  well  nigh  been  fatal  to 
me ;  for  the  sea,  having  hurried  me  along  as  before,  landed 
me,  or  rather  dashed  me,  against  a  piece  of  a  rock,  and  that 
with  such  force,  as  it  left  me  senseless,  and  indeed  helpless, 
as  to  my  own  deliverance ;  for  the  blow  taking  my  side  and 

55 breast,  beat  the  breath,  as  it  were,  quite  out  of  my  body; 
and  had  it  returned  again  immediately,  I  must  have  been 
strangled  in  the  water.  But  I  recovered  a  little  before  the 
return  of  the  waves,  and  seeing  I  should  be  covered  again 
with  the  water,  I  resolved  to  hold  fast  by  a  piece  of  the  rock, 

60  and  so  to  hold  my  breath,  if  possible,  till  the  wave  went 
back.  Now,  as  the  waves  were  not  so  high  as  at  first,  being 
near  land,  I  held  my  hold  till  the  wave  abated,  and  then 


DANIEL  DEFOE  157 

fetched  another  run,  which  brought  me  so  near  the  shore, 
that  the  next  wave,  though  it  went  over  me,  yet  did  not  so 
swallow  me  up  as  to  carry  me  away,  and  the  next  run  I  took  65 
I  got  to  the  mainland,  where,  to  my  great  comfort,  I  clam- 
bered up  the  cliffs  of  the  shore,  and  sat  me  down  upon  the 
grass,  free  from  danger,  and  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
water. 

I  was  now  landed,  and  safe  on  shore,  and  began  to  look  70 
up  and  thank  God  that  my  life  was  saved  in  a  case  wherein 
there  was  some  minutes  before  scarce  any  room  to  hope. 
I  believe  it  is  impossible  to  express  to  the  life  what  the 
ecstasies  and  transports  of  the  soul  are  when  it  is  so  saved, 
as  I  may  say,  out  of  the  very  grave ;    and  I  do  not  wonder  75 
now  at  that  custom,  viz.,  that  when  a  malefactor,  who  has 
the  halter  about  his  neck,  is  tied  up,  and  just  going  to  be 
turned  off,  and  has  a  reprieve  brought  to  him  —  I  say,  I 
do  not  wonder  that  they  bring  a  surgeon  with  it,  to  let  him 
blood  that  very  moment  they  tell  him  of  it,  that  the  sur-80 
prise  may  not  drive  the  animal  spirits  from  the  heart,  and 
overwhelm  him : 

"  For  sudden  joys,  like  griefs,  confound  at  first." 

I  walked  about  on  the  shore,  lifting  up  my  hands,  and  my 
whole  being,  as  I  may  say,  wrapt  up  in  the  contemplation  85 
of  my  deliverance,  making  a  thousand  gestures  and  motions 
which  I  cannot  describe,  reflecting  upon  all  my  comrades 
that  were  drowned,  and  that  there  should  not  be  one  soul 
saved  but  myself ;  for,  as  for  them,  I  never  saw  them  after- 
wards, or  any  sign  of  them,  except  three  of  their  hats,  one  90 
cap,  and  two  shoes  that  were  not  fellows. 

I  cast  my  eyes  to  the  stranded  vessel,  when  the  breach 
and  froth  of  the  sea  being  so  big,  I  could  hardly  see  it,  it 
lay  so  far  off,  and  considered,  Lord !  how  was  it  possible 
I  could  get  on  shore?  95 


158  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


How  Crusoe  Baked  Bread 


The  baking  part  was  the  next  thing  to  be  considered, 
and  how  I  should  make  bread  when  I  came  to  have  corn; 
for,  first,  I  had  no  yeast.  As  to  that  part,  as  there  was  no 
supplying  the  want,  so  I  did  not  concern  myself  much  about 
5 it;  but  for  an  oven  I  was  indeed  in  great  pain.  At  length 
I  found  out  an  experiment  for  that  also,  which  was  this : 
I  made  some  earthen  vessels  very  broad,  but  not  deep, 
that  is  to  say,  about  two  feet  diameter,  and  not  above  nine 
inches  deep;    these  I  burned  in  the  fire,  as  I  had  done  the 

10 other,  and  laid  them  by;  and  when  I  wanted  to  bake,  I 
made  a  great  fire  upon  my  hearth,  which  I  had  paved  with 
some  square  tiles,  of  my  own  making  and  burning  also; 
but  I  should  not  call  them  square. 

When  the  firewood  was  burned  pretty  much  into  embers, 

15  or  live  coals,  I  drew  them  forward  upon  this  hearth,  so  as 
to  cover  it  all  over,  and  there  I  let  them  lie  till  the  hearth 
was  very  hot;  then  sweeping  away  all  the  embers,  I  set 
down  my  loaf,  or  loaves,  and  whelming  down  the  earthen 
pot  upon  them,  drew  the  embers  all  round  the  outside  of 

20  the  pot,  to  keep  in  and  add  to  the  heat.  And  thus,  as  well 
as  in  the  best  oven  in  the  world,  I  baked  my  barley-loaves, 
and  became,  in  little  time,  a  mere  pastry-cook  into  the  bar- 
gain ;  for  I  made  myself  several  cakes  of  the  rice,  and  pud- 
dings;   indeed,  I  made  no  pies,  neither  had  I  anything  to 

25  put  into  them,  supposing  I  had,  ejicept  the  flesh  either  of 
fowls  or  goats. 

Friday 

He  was  a  comely,  handsome  fellow,  perfectly  well  made, 
with  straight,  strong  limbs,  not  too  large,  tall,  and  well- 
shaped,  and,  as  I  reckon,  about  twenty-six  years  of  age.  He 
had  a  very  good  countenance,  not  a  fierce  and  surly  aspect, 


DANIEL  DEFOE  159 

but  seemed  to  have  something  very  manly  in  his  face ;   and  5 
yet  he  had  all  the  sweetness  and  softness  of  an  European 
in  his  countenance  too,  especially  when  he  smiled.     His 
hair  was  long  and  black,  not  curled  like  wool ;   his  forehead 
very  high  and  large;    and  a  great  vivacity  and  sparkling 
sharpness  in  his  eyes.     The  colour  of  his  skin  was  not  quite  lo 
black,  but  very  tawny;    and  yet  not  of  an  ugly,  yellow, 
nauseous  tawny,  as  the  Brazilians  and  Virginians,  and  other 
natives  of  America  are,  but  of  a  bright  kind  of  a  dun  olive 
colour,   that  had  in  it  something  very  agreeable,   though 
not  very  easy  to  describe.     His  face  was  round  and  plump ;  15 
his  nose  small,  not  fiat  like  the  negroes ;  a  very  good  mouth, 
thin  lips,  and  his  fine  teeth  well  set,  and  white  as  ivory. 

After  he  had  slumbered,  rather  than  slept,  about  half- 
an-hour,  he  waked  again,  and  comes  out  of  the  cave  to  me, 
for  I  had  been  milking  my  goats,  which  I  had  in  the  enclosure  20 
just  by.  When  he  espied  me,  he  came  running  to  me,  lay- 
ing himself  down  again  upon  the  ground,  with  all  the  pos- 
sible signs  of  an  humble,  thankful  disposition,  making  a 
many  antic  gestures  to  show  it.  At  last  he  lays  his  head 
flat  upon  the  ground,  close  to  my  foot,  and  sets  my  other  25 
foot  upon  his  head,  as  he  had  done  before,  and  after  this 
made  all  the  signs  to  me  of  subjection,  servitude,  and  sub- 
mission imaginable,  to  let  me  know  how  he  would  serve  me 
as  long  as  he  lived.  I  understood  him  in  many  things, 
and  let  him  know  I  was  very  well  pleased  with  him.  In  a  30 
little  time  I  began  to  speak  to  him,  and  teach  him  to  speak 
to  me ;  and  first  I  made  him  know  his  name  should  be  Friday, 
which  was  the  day  I  saved  his  life.  I  called  him  so  for  the 
memory  of  the  time.  I  likewise  taught  him  to  say  master, 
and  then  let  him  know  that  was  to  be  my  name.  I  likewise  35 
taught  him  to  say  Yes  and  No,  and  to  know  the  meaning 
of  them.  I  gave  him  some  milk  in  an  earthen  pot,  and  let 
him  see  me  drink  it  before  him,  and  sop  my  bread  in  it; 


160  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

and  I  gave  him  a  cake  of  bread  to  do  the  like,  which  he 
40  quickly  complied  with,  and  made  signs  that  it  was  very 
good  for  him. 

RICHARD    STEELE 

F*rospectus 
(The  Tatler,  No.  i.    Tuesday,  April  12,  1709.) 

Though  the  other  papers,  which  are  published  for  the 
use  of  the  good  people  of  England,  have  certainly  very 
wholesome  effects,  and  are  laudable  in  their  particular 
kinds,  they  do  not  seem  to  come  up  to  the  main  design  of 
5  such  narrations,  which  I  humbly  presume,  should  be  prin- 
cipally intended  for  the  use  of  politic  persons,  who  are  so 
public-spirited  as  to  neglect  their  own  affairs  to  look  into 
transactions  of  state.  Now  these  gentlemen,  for  the  most 
part,  being  persons  of  strong  zeal,  and  weak  intellects,  it 

10  is  both  a  charitable  and  necessary  work  to  offer  something, 
whereby   such   worthy   and   well-affected   members   of   the 

,  commonwealth  may  be  instructed,  after  their  reading,  what 
to  think;  which  shall  be  the  end  and  purpose  of  this  my 
paper,  wherein  I  shall,  from  time  to  time,  report  and  con- 

15  sider  all  matters  of  what  kind  soever  that  shall  occur  to  me, 
and  publish  such  my  advices  and  reflections  every  Tuesday, 
Thursday,  and  Saturday  in  the  week,  for  the  convenience 
of  the  post. 

I  resolve  to  have  something  which  may  be  of  entertain- 

20  ment  to  the  fair  sex,  in  honor  of  whom  I  have  invented  the 
title  of  this  paper.  I  therefore  earnestly  desire  all  persons, 
without  distinction,  to  take  it  in  for  the  present  gratis,  and 
hereafter  at  the  price  of  one  penny,  forbidding  all  hawkers 
to  take  more  for  it  at  their  peril.     And  I  desire  all  persons 

25  to  consider,  that  I  am  at  a  very  great  charge  for  proper 
materials  for  this  work,  as  well  as  that,  before  I  resolved 


RICHARD  STEELE  161 

upon  it,  I  had  settled  a  correspondence  in  all  parts  of  the 
known  and  knowing  world.  And  forasmuch  as  this  globe 
is  not  trodden  upon  by  mere  drudges  of  business  only,  but 
that  men  of  spirit  and  genius  are  justly  to  be  esteemed  as  30 
considerable  agents  in  it,  we  shall  not,  upon  a  dearth  of 
news,  present  you  with  musty  foreign  edicts,  and  dull  procla- 
mations, but  shall  divide  our  relation  of  the  passages  which 
occur  in  action  or  discourse  throughout  this  town,  as  well  as 
elsewhere,  under  such  dates  of  places  as  may  prepare  you  35 
for  the  matter  you  are  to  expect  in  the  following  manner. 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and  entertainment, 
shall  be  under  the  article  of  White's  Chocolate-house; 
poetry,  under  that  of  Will's  Coffee-house;  learning,  under 
the  title  of  Grecian;  foreign  and  domestic  news,  you  will 40 
have  from  St.  James's  Coffee-house;  and  what  else  I  have 
to  offer  on  any  other  subject  shall  be  dated  from  my  own 
Apartment. 

I  once  more  desire  my  reader  to  consider,  that  as  I  cannot 
keep  an  ingenious  man  to  go  daily  to  Will's  under  two  -pence  45 
each  day,  merely  for  his  charges;    to  White's  under  six- 
pence;   nor  to   the   Grecian,   without  allowing  him  some 
plain  Spanish,  to  be  as  able  as  others  at  the  learned  table; 
and  that  a  good  observer  cannot  speak  with  even  Kidney 
at  St.  James's  without  clean  linen;    I  say,  these  considera-50 
tions  will,  I  hope,  make  all  persons  willing  to  comply  with 
my  humble  request   (when  my  gratis  stock  is  exhausted) 
of  a  penny  apiece;    especially  since  they  are  sure  of  some 
proper  amusement;  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  want 
means  to  entertain  them,  having,  besides  the  force  of  my  55 
own  parts,  the  power  of  divination,  and  that  I  can,  by  casting 
a  figure,  tell  you  all  that  will  happen  before  it  comes  to  pass. 

But  this  last  faculty  I  shall  use  very  sparingly,  and  speak 
but  of  few  things  until  they  are  passed,  for  fear  of  divulging 
matters  which  may  offend  our  superiors.  60 


162  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Mr.  Bickerstaff  Visits  a  Friend 

(The  Tatler,  No.  95.    November  17,  1709.) 

There  are  several  persons  who  have  many  pleasures  and 
entertainments  in  their  possession,  which  they  do  not  enjoy. 
It  is,  therefore,  a  kind  and  good  oflfiee  to  acquaint  them 
with  their  own  happiness,  and  turn  their  attention  to  such 

5  instances  of  their  good  fortune  as  they  are  apt  to  overlook. 
Persons  in  the  married  state  often  want  such  a  monitor; 
and  pine  away  their  days,  by  looking  upon  the  same  condi- 
tion in  anguish  and  murmur,  which  carries  with  it  in  the  opin- 
ion of  others  a  complication  of  all  the  pleasures  of  life,  and 

10  a  retreat  from  its  inquietudes. 

I  am  led  into  this  thought  by  a  visit  I  made  an  old  friend, 
who  was  formerly  my  school-fellow.  He  came  to  town 
last  week  with  his  family  for  the  winter,  and  yesterday  morn- 
ing sent  me  word  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner.     I  am, 

15  as  it  were,  at  home  at  that  house,  and  every  member  of  it 
knows  me  for  their  well-wisher.  I  cannot  indeed  express 
the  pleasure  it  is,  to  be  met  by  the  children  with  so  much 
joy  as  I  am  when  I  go  thither.  The  boys  and  girls  strive 
who  shall  come  first,  when  they  think  it  is  I  that  am  knock- 

20  ing  at  the  door ;  and  that  child  which  loses  the  race  to  me 
runs  back  again  to  tell  the  father  it  is  Mr.  Bickerstaff.  This 
day  I  was  led  in  by  a  pretty  girl,  that  we  all  thought  must 
have  forgot  me ;  for  the  family  has  been  out  of  town  these 
two  years.     Her  knowing  me  again  was  a  mighty  subject 

25  with  us,  and  took  up  our  discourse  at  the  first  entrance. 

After  which,  they  began  to  rally  me  upon  a  thousand  little 
stories  they  heard  in  the  country,  about  my  marriage  to 
one  of  my  neighbour's  daughters.  Upon  which  the  gentle- 
man, my  friend,  said,  "Nay,  if  Mr.  Bickerstaif  marries  a 

30  child  of  any  of  his  old  companions,  I  hope  mine  shall  have 
the  preference ;  there  is  Mrs.  Mary  is  now  sixteen,  and  would 


RICHARD  STEELE  163 

make  him  as  fine  a  widow  as  the  best  of  them.  But  I  know 
him  too  well ;  he  is  so  enamoured  with  the  very  memory 
of  those  who  flourished  in  our  youth,  that  he  will  not  so 
much  as  look  upon  the  modern  beauties.  I  remember,  35 
old  gentleman,  how  often  you  went  home  in  a  day  to  refresh 
your  countenance  and  dress  when  Teraminta  reigned  in 
your  heart.  As  we  came  up  in  the  coach,  I  repeated  to  my 
wife  some  of  your  verses  on  her."  With  such  reflections 
on  little  passages  which  happened  long  ago,  we  passed  our  40 
time,  during  a  cheerful  and  elegant  meal. 

After  dinner,  his  lady  left  the  room,  as  did  also  the  chil- 
dren. As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  took  me  by  the  hand ; 
"Well,  my  good  friend,"  says  he,  "I  am  heartily  glad  to  see 
thee ;  I  was  afraid  you  would  never  have  seen  all  the  com-  45 
pany  that  dined  with  you  to-day  again.  Do  not  you  think 
the  good  woman  of  the  house  a  little  altered  since  you  fol- 
lowed her  from  the  playhouse,  to  find  out  who  she  was,  for 
me  ?  "  I  perceived  a  tear  fall  down  his  cheek,  as  he  spoke, 
which  moved  me  not  a  little.  50 

But,  to  turn  the  discourse,  I  said,  "She  is  not  indeed 
quite  that  creature  she  was,  when  she  returned  me  the 
letter  I  carried  from  you;  and  told  me,  'she  hoped,  as 
I  was  a  gentleman,  I  would  be  employed  no  more  to  trouble 
her,  who  had  never  offended  me;  but  would  be  so  much 55 
the  gentleman's  friend,  as  to  dissuade  him  from  a  pursuit, 
which  he  could  never  succeed  in.'  You  may  remember, 
I  thought  her  in  earnest;  and  you  were  forced  to  employ 
your  cousin  Will,  who  made  his  sister  get  acquainted  with 
her,  for  you.     You  cannot  expect  her  to  be  for  ever  fifteen."  60 

"  Fifteen ! "  replied  my  good  friend  :  "  Ah !  you  little  under- 
stand, you  that  have  lived  a  bachelor,  how  great,  how  ex- 
quisite a  pleasure  there  is,  in  really  being  beloved!  It  is 
impossible,  that  the  most  beauteous  face  in  nature  should 
raise  in  me  such  pleasing  ideas,  as  when  I  look  upon  that  65 


164  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

excellent  woman.  That  fading  in  her  countenance  is  chiefly 
caused  by  her  watching  with  me,  in  my  fever.  This  was 
followed  by  a  fit  of  sickness,  which  had  like  to  have  carried 
her  off  last  winter.     I  tell  you  sincerely,  I  have  so  many 

70  obligations  to  her,  that  I  cannot,  with  any  sort  of  modera- 
tion, think  of  her  present  state  of  health.  But  as  to  what 
you  say  of  fifteen,  she  gives  me  every  day  pleasures  beyond 
what  I  ever  knew  in  the  possession  of  her  beauty,  when  I 
was  in  the  vigour  of  youth.     Every  moment  of  her  life 

75  brings  me  fresh  instances  of  her  complacency  to  my  inclina- 
tions, and  her  prudence  in  regard  to  my  fortune.  Her  face 
is  to  me  much  more  beautiful  than  when  I  first  saw  it; 
there  is  no  decay  in  any  feature,  which  I  cannot  trace,  from 
the  very  instant  it  was  occasioned  by  some  anxious  concern 

80  for  my  welfare  and  interests.  Thus,  at  the  same  time, 
methinks,  the  love  I  conceived  towards  her  for  what  she 
was,  is  heightened  by  my  gratitude  for  what  she  is.  The 
love  of  a  wife  is  as  much  above  the  idle  passion  commonly 
called  by  that  name,  as  the  loud  laughter  of  buffoons  is 

85  inferior  to  the  elegant  mirth  of  gentlemen.  Oh !  she  is  an 
inestimable  jewel.  In  her  examination  of  her  household 
affairs,  she  shows  a  certain  fearfulness  to  find  a  fault,  which 
makes  her  servants  obey  her  like  children ;  and  the  meanest 
we  have  has  an  ingenuous  shame  for  an  offence,  not  always 

90  to  be  seen  in  children  in  other  families.  I  speak  freely  to 
you,  my  old  friend ;  ever  since  her  sickness,  things  that  gave 
me  the  quickest  joy  before,  turn  now  to  a  certain  anxiety. 
As  the  children  play  in  the  next  room,  I  know  the  poor  things 
by  their  steps,   and   am  considering  what  they  must  do, 

95  should  they  lose  their  mother  in  their  tender  years.  The 
pleasure  I  used  to  take  in  telling  my  boy  stories  of  battles, 
and  asking  my  girl  questions  about  the  disposal  of  her  doll, 
and  the  gossiping  of  it,  is  turned  into  inward  reflection  and 
melancholy." 


RICHARD  STEELE  165 

He  would  have  gone  on  in  this  tender  way,  when  the  good  100 
lady  entered,  and  with  an  inexpressible   sweetness  in  her 
countenance  told  us,  "she  had  been  searching  her  closet  for 
something  very  good,  to  treat  such  an  old  friend  as  I  was." 
Her  husband's  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure  at  the  cheer- 
fulness of  her  countenance;    and  I  saw  all  his  fears  vanish  105 
in  an  instant.     The  lady  observing  something  in  our  looks 
which  showed  we  had  been  more  serious   than  ordinary, 
and  seeing  her  husband  receive  her  with  great  concern  under 
a  forced  cheerfulness,  immediately  guessed  at  what  we  had 
been  talking  of;    and  applying  herself  to  me,  said,  with  alio 
smile,  "Mr.  Bickers taff,  do  not  believe  a  word  of  what  he 
tells  you,  I  shall  still  live  to  have  you  for  a  second,  as  I  have 
often  promised  you,  unless  he  takes  more  care  of  himself 
than  he  has  done  since  coming  to  town.     You  must  know, 
he  tells  me  that  he  finds  London  is  a  much  more  healthy  115 
place  than  the  country ;  for  he  sees  several  of  his  old  acquaint- 
ances and  school-fellows  are  here  with  fair  full-bottomed 
periwigs.     I  could  scarce  keep  him  in    this  morning  from 
going  out  open-breasted." 

My  friend,  who  is  always  extremely  delighted  with  her  120 
agreeable  humour,  made  her  sit  down  with  us.     She  did  it 
with  that  easiness  which  is  pecuUar  to  women  of  sense ;    and 
to  keep  up  the  good  humour  she  had  brought  in  with  her, 
turned  her  raillery  upon  me.      "  Mr,  Bickerstaff,  you  remem- 
ber you  followed  me  one  night  from  the  play-house ;  suppose  125 
you  should  carry  me  thither  to-morrow  night,  and  lead  me 
into  the  front  box."     This  put  us  into  a  long  field  of  dis- 
course about  the  beauties  who  were  mothers  to  the  present, 
and  shined  in  the  boxes  twenty  years  ago.     I  told  her,  "I 
was  glad  she  had  transferred  so  many  of  her  charms,  and  1 130 
did  not  question  but  her  eldest  daughter  was  within  half-a- 
year  of  being  a  toast." 

We   were   pleasing   ourselves   with   this   fantastical   pre- 


166  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ferment  of  the  young  lady,  when  on  a  sudden  we  were  alarmed 

135  with  the  noise  of  a  drum,  and  immediately  entered  my  little 
godson  to  give  me  a  point  of  war.  His  mother,  between 
laughing  and  chiding,  would  have  put  him  out  of  the  room ; 
but  I  would  not  part  with  him  so.  I  found,  upon  conversa- 
tion with  him,  though  he  was  a  little  noisy  in  his  mirth, 

140  that  the  child  had  excellent  parts,  and  was  great  master  of 
all  the  learning  on  the  other  side  eight  years  old.  I  per- 
ceived him  a  very  great  historian  in  vEsop's  Fables ;  but  he 
frankly  declared  to  me  his  mind,  "that  he  did  not  delight 
in  that  learning,  because  he  did  not  believe  they  were  true ; " 

145  for  which  reason  I  found  he  had  very  much  turned  his  studies, 
for  about  a  twelvemonth  past,  into  the  lives  and  adventures 
of  Don  Belianis  of  Greece,  Guy  of  Warwick,  the  Seven 
Champions,  and  other  historians  of  that  age.  I  could  not 
but  observe  the  satisfaction  the  father  took  in  the  forward- 

15oness  of  his  son;  and  that  these  diversions  might  turn  to 
some  profit,  I  found  the  boy  had  made  remarks  which  might 
be  of  service  to  him  during  the  course  of  his  whole  life. 

He  would  tell  you  the  mismanagement  of  John  Hicker- 
thrift,  find  fault  with  the  passionate  temper  in  Bevis  of  South- 

155  ampton,  and  loved  St.  George  for  being  the  champion  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  by  this  means  had  his  thoughts  insensibly  moulded 
into  the  notions  of  discretion,  virtue,  and  honour.  I  was 
extolling  his  accomplishments,  when  his  mother  told  me, 
that  the  little  girl  who  led  me  in  this  morning  was  in  her 

160 way  a  better  scholar  than  he.  "Betty,"  said  she,  "deals 
chiefly  with  fairies  and  sprites ;  and  sometimes  in  a  winter- 
night  will  terrify  the  maids  with  her  accounts,  until  they 
are  afraid  to  go  to  bed." 

I  sat  with  them  until  it  was  very  late,  sometimes  in  merry, 

165  sometimes  in  serious  discourse,  with  this  particular  pleasure, 
which  gives  the  only  true  relish  to  all  conversation,  a  sense 
that  every  one  of  us  liked  each  other.     I  went  home,  con- 


RICHARD  STEELE  167 

sidering  the  different  conditions  of  a  married  life  and  that 
of  a  bachelor ;  and  I  must  confess  it  struck  me  with  a  secret 
concern,  to  reflect,  that  whenever  I  go  off,  I  shall  leave  no  170 
traces  behind  me.  In  this  pensive  mood  I  returned  to  my 
family;  that  is  to  say,  to  my  maid,  my  dog,  and  my  cat, 
who  only  can  be  the  better  or  worse  for  what  happens  to  me. 

The  Editor's  Troubles 
(The  Tatler,  No.  164.    Thursday.  April  27,  1710.) 

I  have  lately  been  looking  over  the  many  packets  of 
letters  which  I  have  received  from  all  quarters  of  Great 
Britain,  as  well  as  from  foreign  countries,  since  my  entering 
upon  the  office  of  Censor ;  and  indeed  am  very  much  surprised 
to  see  so  great  a  number  of  them,  and  pleased  to  think  that  5 
I  have  so  far  increased  the  revenue  of  the  post-office.  As 
this  collection  will  grow  daily,  I  have  digested  it  into  several 
bundles,  and  made  proper  indorsements  on  each  particular 
letter;  it  being  my  design,  when  I  lay  down  the  work  that 
I  am  now  engaged  in,  to  erect  a  paper  office,  and  give  it  to  10 
the  public. 

I  could  not  but  make  several  observations  upon  reading 
over  the  letters  of  my  correspondents.  As  first  of  all,  on 
the  different  tastes  that  reign  in  the  different  parts  of  this 
city.  I  find,  by  the  approbations  which  are  given  me,  that  15 
I  am  seldom  famous  on  the  same  days  on  both  sides  of 
Temple-bar;  and  that  when  I  am  in  greatest  repute  within 
the  liberties,  I  dwindle  at  the  court-end  of  the  town.  Some- 
times I  sink  in  both  these  places  at  the  same  time;  but, 
for  my  comfort,  my  name  hath  then  been  up  in  the  districts  20 
of  Wapping  and  Rotherhithe.  Some  of  my  correspondents 
desire  me  to  be  always  serious,  and  others  to  be  always 
merry.  Some  of  them  intreat  me  to  go  to  bed  and  fall  into 
a  dream,  and  like  me  better  when  I  am  asleep  than  when  I 


168  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

25  am  awake :  others  advise  me  to  sit  all  night  upon  the  stars, 
and  be  more  frequent  in  my  astrological  observations ; 
for  that  a  vision  is  not  properly  a  lucubration.  Some  of  my 
readers  thank  me  for  filling  my  paper  with  the  flowers  of 
antiquity,  others  desire  news  from  Flanders.     Some  approve 

30  my  criticisms  on  the  dead,  and  others  my  censures  on  the 
living.  For  this  reason,  I  once  resolved,  in  the  new  edition 
of  my  works,  to  range  my  several  papers  under  distinct 
heads,  according  as  their  principal  design  was  to  benefit 
and  instruct  the  different  capacities  of  my  readers ;    and  to 

35  follow  the  example  of  some  very  great  authors,  by  writing 
at  the  head  of  each  discourse.  Ad  Aulam,  Ad  Aeademiam, 
Ad  Poptdum,  Ad  Clerum. 

There  is  no  particular  in  which  my  correspondents  of  all 
ages,  conditions,  sexes,  and  complexions,  universally  agree, 

40  except  only  in  their  thirst  after  scandal.  It  is  impossible 
to  conceive,  how  many  have  recommended  their  neighbours 
to  me  upon  this  account,  or  how  unmercifully  I  have  been 
abused  by  several  unknown  hands,  for  not  publishing  the 
secret  histories   that  I   have  received  from   almost  every 

45  street  in  town. 

It  would  indeed  be  very  dangerous  for  me  to  read  over 
the  many  praises  and  eulogiums,  which  come  post  to  me 
from  all  the  corners  of  the  nation,  were  they  not  mixed  with 
many    checks,    reprimands,    scurrilities,    and    reproaches : 

50  which  several  of  my  good-natured  countrymen  cannot 
forbear  sending  me,  though  it  often  costs  them  two-pence 
or  a  groat  before  they  can  convey  them  to  my  hands :  so 
that  sometimes  when  I  am  put  into  the  best  humour  in  the 
world,  after  having  read  a  panegyric  upon  my  performances, 

55  and  looked  upon  myself  as  a  benefactor  to  the  British  nation, 
the  next  letter,  perhaps,  I  open,  begins  with  "  You  old  doting 
scoundrel !  —  Are  not  you  a  sad  dog  ?  —  Sirrah,  you  de- 
serve to  have  your  nose  slit;"    and  the  like  ingenious  con- 


RICHARD  STEELE  169 

ceits.     These  little  mortifications  are  necessary  to  suppress 
that  pride  and  vanity  which  naturally  arise  in  the  mind  of  6Q 
a  received  author;  and  enable  me  to  bear  the  reputation 
which  my  courteous  readers  bestow  upon  me,  without  be- 
coming a  coxcomb  by  it.     It  was  for  the  same  reason,  that 
when  a  Roman  general  entered  the  city  in  the  pomp  of  a 
triumph,  the  commonwealth  allowed  of  several  little  draw- 65 
backs  to  his  reputation,  by  conniving  at  such  of  the  rabble 
as  repeated  libels  and  lampoons  upon  him  within  his  hear- 
ing;   and  by  that  means  engaged  his  thoughts  upon  his 
weakness  and  imperfections  as  well  as  on  the  merits  that 
advanced  him  to  so  great  honours.     The  conqueror,  how- 70 
ever,  was  not  the  less  esteemed  for  being  a  man  in  some 
particulars,  because  he  appeared  as  a  god  in  others. 

There  is  another  circumstance  in  which  my  countrymen 
have  dealt  very  perversely  with  me ;   and  that  is,  in  search- 
ing not  only  into  my  life,  but  also  into  the  lives  of  my  an-  75 
cestors.     If  there  has  been  a  blot  in  my  family  for  these  ten 
generations,  it  hath  been  discovered  by  some  or  other  of 
my  correspondents.     In  short,  I  find  the  ancient  family  of 
the  Bickerstaffs  has  suffered  very  much  through  the  malice 
and  prejudice  of  my  enemies.     Some  of  them  twit  me  in  80 
the  teeth  with  the  conduct  of  my  aunt  Margery.     Nay, 
there  are  some  who  have  been  so  disingenuous,  as  to  throw 
Maud  the  milkmaid  into  my  dish,  notwithstanding  I  myself 
was  the  first  who  discovered  that  alliance.     I  reap,  however, 
many  benefits  from  the  malice  of  these  enemies,  as  they  85 
let  me  see  my  own  faults,  and  give  me  a  view  of  myself  in 
the  worst  light;    as  they  hinder  me  from  being  blown  up 
by  flattery  and  self-conceit ;  as  they  make  me  keep  a  watch- 
ful eye  over  my  own  actions;    and  at  the  same  time  make 
me  cautious  how  I  talk  of  others,  and  particularly  of  my  90 
friends  or  relations,  or  value  myself  upon  the  antiquity  of 
my  family. 


170  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

But  the  most  formidable  part  of  my  correspondents  are 
those,  whose  letters  are  filled  with  threats  and  menaces. 
95 1  have  been  treated  so  often  after  this  manner,  that,  not 
thinking  it  sufficient  to  fence  well,  in  which  I  am  now  arrived 
at  the  utmost  perfection,  and  to  carry  pistols  about  me, 
which  I  have  always  tucked  within  my  girdle;  I  several 
months  since  made  my  will,  settled  my  estate,  and  took  leave 

100  of  my  friends,  looking  upon  myself  as  no  better  than  a  dead 
man.  Nay,  I  went  so  far  as  to  write  a  long  letter  to  the 
most  intimate  acquaintance  I  have  in  the  world,  under  the 
character  of  a  departed  person;  giving  him  an  account  of 
what  brought  me  to  that  untimely  end,  and  of  the  fortitude 

105  with  which  I  met  it.  This  letter  being  too  long  for  the  pres- 
ent paper,  I  intend  to  print  it  by  itself  very  suddenly; 
and  at  the  same  time  I  must  confess,  I  took  my  hint  of 
it  from  the  behaviour  of  an  old  soldier  in  the  civil  wars, 
who  was  corporal  of  a   company   in   a   regiment   of   foot, 

110  about  the  same  time  that  I  myself  was  a  cadet  in  the  king's 
army. 

This  gentleman  was  taken  by  the  enemy;  and  the  two 
parties  were  upon  such  terms  at  that  time,  that  we  did  not 
treat  each  other  as  prisoners  of  war,  but  as  traitors  and 

115  rebels.  The  poor  corporal,  being  condemned  to  die,  wrote 
a  letter  to  his  wife  when  under  sentence  of  execution.  He 
writ  on  the  Thursday,  and  was  to  be  executed  on  the  Friday ; 
but,  considering  that  the  letter  would  not  come  to  his  wife's 
hands  until  Saturday,  the  day  after  execution,  and  being 

120  at  that  time  more  scrupulous  than  ordinary  in  speak- 
ing exact  truth,  he  formed  his  letter  rather  according 
to  the  posture  of  his  affairs  when  she  should  read  it, 
than  as  they  stood  when  he  sent  it :  though  it  must 
be   confessed,    there    is    a   certain   perplexity   in    the  style 

125  of  it,  which  the  reader  will  easily  pardon,  considering  his 
circumstances. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  171 

"Dear  Wife, 

"Hoping  you  are  in  good  health,  as  I  am  at  this  present 
writing:  this  is  to  let  you  know,  that  yesterday,  between 
the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  I  was  hanged,  drawn,  and  130 
quartered.  I  died  very  penitently,  and  every  body  thought 
my  case  very  hard.  Remember  me  kindly  to  my  poor 
fatherless  children.     Yours,  until  death, 

W.  B." 

It  so  happened,  that  this  honest  fellow  was  relieved  by  a  135 
party  of  his  friends,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  all  the 
rebels  hanged  who  had  been  his  enemies.  I  must  not  omit 
a  circumstance  which  exposed  him  to  raillery  his  whole 
life  after.  Before  the  arrival  of  the  next  post,  that  would 
have  set  all  things  clear,  his  wife  was  married  to  a  second  140 
husband,  who  lived  in  the  peaceable  possession  of  her ;  and 
the  corporal,  who  was  a  man  of  plain  understanding,  did 
not  care  to  stir  in  the  matter,  as  knowing  that  she  had  the 
news  of  his  death  under  his  own  hand,  which  she  might  have 
produced  upon  occasion.  145 

JOSEPH   ADDISON 

Mailborough 
(From  The  Campaign) 

But,  O  my  muse,  what  numbers  wih  thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  joined  ! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum's  tvmivdtuous  sound 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound. 
The  dreadful  bxu-st  of  cannon  rend  the  skies,  5 

And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise  ! 
'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul  was  proved. 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved. 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair. 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war ;  10 


172  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed, 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage, 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 

15  So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 

With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land. 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past. 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast. 
And,  pleased  the  Almighty's  orders  to  perform, 

20  Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 

Hymn 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
5  Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
10  The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale ; 

And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  : 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
15  Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
20  Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice ; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  173 

Frozen  Words 
(The  Tatler,  No.  254.    Thursday,  November  23,  1710.) 

There  are  no  books  which  I  more  dehght  in  than  in  travels, 
especially  those  that  describe  remote  countries,  and  give  the 
writer  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  parts  without  incurring 
any  danger  of  being  examined  or  contradicted.  Among  all 
the  authors  of  this  kind,  our  renowned  countryman.  Sirs 
John  Mandeville,  has  distinguished  himself  by  the  copious- 
ness of  his  invention  and  the  greatness  of  his  genius.  The 
second  to  Sir  John  I  take  to  have  been  Ferdinand  Mendez 
Pinto,  a  person  of  infinite  adventure,  and  unbounded  imag- 
ination. One  reads  the  voyages  of  these  two  great  wits,  10 
with  as  much  astonishment  as  the  travels  of  Ulysses  in 
Homer,  or  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight  in  Spenser.  All  is 
enchanted  ground,  and  fairyland. 

I  have  got  into  my  hands,  by  great  chance,  several  manu- 
scripts of  these  two  eminent  authors,  which  are  filled  with  15 
greater  wonders  than  any  of  those  they  have  communicated 
to  the  public  ;  and  indeed,  were  they  not  so  well  attested,  they 
would  appear  altogether  improbable.  I  am  apt  to  think  the 
ingenious  authors  did  not  publish  them  with  the  rest  of  thfeir 
works,  lest  they  should  pass  for  fictions  and  fables :  a  20 
caution  not  unnecessary,  when  the  reputation  of  their  verac- 
ity was  not  yet  established  in  the  world.  But  as  this 
reason  has  now  no  farther  weight,  I  shall  make  the  public  a 
present  of  these  curious  pieces,  at  such  times  as  I  shall 
find  myself  unprovided  with  other  subjects.  25 

The  present  paper  I  intend  to  fill  with  an  extract  from 
Sir  John's  Journal,  in  which  that  learned  and  worthy  knight 
gives  an  account  of  the  freezing  and  thawing  of  several  short 
speeches,  which  he  made  in  the  territories  of  Nova  Zembla. 
I  need  not  inform  my  reader,  that  the  author  of  "Hudibras"  30 
alludes  to  this  strange  quality  in  that  cold  climate,  when. 


174  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

speaking  of  abstracted  notions  clothed  in  a  visible  shape,  he 
adds  that  apt  simile, 

"Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air." 

35  Not  to  keep  my  reader  any  longer  in  suspense,  the  relation 
put  into  modern  language,  is  as  follows : 

"  We  were  separated  by  a  storm  in  the  latitude  of  seventy- 
three,  insomuch,  that  only  the  ship  which  I  was  in,  with  a 
Dutch  and  French  vessel,  got  safe  into  a  creek  of  Nova 

40  Zembla.  We  landed,  in  order  to  refit  our  vessels,  and  store 
ourselves  with  provisions.  The  crew  of  each  vessel  made 
themselves  a  cabin  of  turf  and  wood,  at  some  distance  from 
each  other,  to  fence  themselves  against  the  inclemencies  of 
the  weather,  which  was  severe  beyond  imagination.     W^e 

45  soon  observed,  that  in  talking  to  one  another  we  lost  several 
of  our  words,  and  could  not  hear  one  another  at  above  two 
yards  distance,  and  that  too  when  we  sat  very  near  the  fire. 
After  much  perplexity,  I  found  that  our  words  froze  in  the 
air,  before  they  could  reach  the  ears  of  the  persons  to  whom 

50  they  were  spoken.  I  was  soon  confirmed  in  this  conjecture, 
when,  upon  the  increase  of  the  cold,  the  whole  company 
grew  dumb,  or  rather  deaf ;  for  every  man  was  sensible,  as 
we  afterwards  found,  that  he  spoke  as  well  as  ever;  but 
the  sounds  no  sooner  took  air  than  they  were  condensed  and 

65  lost.  It  was  now  a  miserable  spectacle  to  see  us  nodding 
and  gaping  at  one  another,  every  man  talking,  and  no  man 
heard.  One  might  observe  a  seaman  that  could  hail  a  ship 
at  a  league's  distance,  beckoning  with  his  hand,  straining  his 
lungs,  and  tearing  his  throat;    but  all  in  vain. 

60  "W'e  continued  here  three  weeks  in  this  dismal  plight. 
At  length,  upon  a  turn  of  wind,  the  air  about  us  began  to 
thaw.  Our  cabin  was  immediately  filied  with  a  dry  clattering 
sound,  which  I  afterwards  found  tc  be  the  crackling  of 
consonants  that  broke  above  our  heads,  and  were  often  mixed 

65  with  a  gentle  hissing,  which  I  imputed  to  the  letter  s,  that 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  175 

occurs  so  frequently  in  the  English  tongue.     I  soon  after . 
felt  a  breeze  of  whispers  rushing  by  my  ear;    for  those, 
being  of  a  soft  and  gentle  substance,  immediately  liquefied 
in  the  warm  wind  that  blew  across  our  cabin.     These  were 
soon  followed  by  syllables  and  short  words,  and  at  length  70 
by  entire  sentences,  that  melted  sooner  or  later,  as  they  were 
more  or  less  congealed ;    so  that  we  now  heard  every  thing 
that  had  been  spoken  during  the  whole  three  weeks  that  we 
had  been  silent,  if  I  may  use  that  expression.     It  was  now 
very  early  in  the  morning,  and  yet,  to  my  surprise,  I  heard  75 
somebody  say,  'Sir  John,  it  is  midnight,  and  time  for  the 
ship's  crew  to  go  to  bed.'     This  I  knew  to  be  the  pilot's 
voice;    and,  upon  recollecting  myself,  I  concluded  that  he 
had  spoken  these  words  to  me  some  days  before,  though  I 
could  not  hear  them  until  the  present  thaw.     My  reader  so 
will  easily  imagine  how  the  whole  crew  was  amazed  to  hear 
every  man  talking,  and  see  no  man  opening  his  mouth.     In 
the  midst  of  this  great  surprise  we  were  all  in,  we  heard  a 
volley  of  oaths  and  curses,  lasting  for  a  long  while,  and 
uttered  in  a  very  hoarse  voice,  which  I  knew  belonged  to  85 
the  boatswain,  who  was  a  very  choleric  fellow,  and  had 
taken  this  opportunity  of  cursing  and  swearing  at  me,  when 
he  thought  I  could  not  hear  him;    for  I  had  several  times 
given  him  the  strappado  on  that  account,  as  I  did  not  fail 
to  repeat  it  for  these  his  pious  soliloquies,  when  I  got  him  on  90 
shipboard. 

"  I  must  not  omit  the  names  of  several  beauties  in  Wapping, 
which  were  heard  every  now  .^nd  then,  in  the  midst  of  a 
long  sigh  that  accompanied  them ;  as,  '  Dear  Kate ! '  '  Pretty 
Mrs.  Peggy ! '  '  When  shall  I  see  my  Sue  again ! '  This  95 
betrayed  several  amours  which  had  been  concealed  until 
that  time,  and  furnished  us  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth  in  our 
return  to  England. 

"When  this  confusion  of  voices  was  pretty  well  over, 


176  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

log  though  I  was  afraid  to  offer  at  speaking,  as  fearing  I  should 
not  be  heard,  I  proposed  a  visit  to  the  Dutch  cabin,  which  lay 
about  a  mile  farther  up  in  the  country.  My  crew  were 
extremely  rejoiced  to  find  they  had  again  recovered  their 
hearing ;   though  every  man  uttered  his  voice  with  the  same 

105  apprehensions  that  I  had  done. 

"At  about  half-a  mile's  distance  from  our  cabin  we  heard 
the  groanings  of  a  bear,  which  at  first  startled  us ;  but,  upon 
enquiry,  we  were  informed  by  some  of  our  company,  that 
he  was  dead,  and  now  lay  in  salt,  having  been  killed  upon 

110  that  very  spot  about  a  fortnight  before,  in  the  time  of  the 
frost.  Not  far  from  the  same  place,  we  were  likewise 
entertained  with  some  posthumous  snarls  and  barkings  of  a 
fox. 

"We  at  length  arrived  at  the  little  Dutch  settlement; 

115  and,  upon  entering  the  room,  found  it  filled  with  sighs  that 
smelt  of  brandy,  and  several  other  unsavory  sounds,  that 
were  altogether  inarticulate.  My  valet,  who  was  an  Irish- 
man, fell  into  so  great  a  rage  at  what  he  heard,  that  he 
drew  his  sword ;    but  not  knowing  where  to  lay  the  blame, 

120  he  put  it  up  again.  We  were  stunned  with  these  confused 
noises,  but  did  not  hear  a  single  word  until  about  half-an- 
hour  after ;  which  I  ascribed  to  the  harsh  and  obdurate  sounds 
of  that  language,  which  wanted  more  time  than  ours  to  melt 
and  become  audible. 

125  "After  having  here  met  with  a  very  hearty  welcome,  we 
went  to  the  cabin  of  the  French,  who,  to  make  amends  for 
their  three  weeks'  silence,  were  talking  and  disputing  with 
greater  rapidity  and  confusion  than  I  ever  heard  in  an  as- 
sembly, even  of  that  nation.     Their  language,  as  I  found, 

130  upon  the  first  giving  of  the  weather,  fell  asunder  and  dissolved. 
I  was  here  convinced  of  an  error,  into  which  I  had  before 
fallen ;  for  I  fancied,  that  for  the  freezing  of  the  sound,  it  was 
necessary  for  it  to  be  wrapped  up,  and,  as  it  were,  preserved 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  177 

in  breath :  but  I  found  my  mistake  when  I  heard  the  sound  of 
a  kit  playing  a  minuet  over  our  heads.  I  asked  the  occasion  135 
of  it ;  upon  which  one  of  the  company  told  me  that  it  woUld 
play  there  above  a  week  longer;  'for,'  says  he,  'finding  our- 
selves bereft  of  speech,  we  prevailed  upon  one  of  the  com- 
pany, who  had  his  musical  instrument  about  him,  to  play 
to  us  from  morning  to  night ;  all  which  time  was  employed  140 
in  dancing  in  order  to  dissipate  our  chagrin,  and  tuer  le 
temps.'" 

Here  Sir  John  gives  very  good  philosophical  reasons, 
why  the  kit  could  not  be  heard  during  the  frost;  but,  as 
they  are  something  prolix,  I  pass  them  over  in  silence,  and  145 
shall  only  observe,  that  the  honorable  author  seems,  by  his 
quotations,  to  have  been  well  versed  in  the  ancient  poets, 
which  perhaps  raised  his  fancy  above  the  ordinary  pitch  of 
historians,  and  very  much  contributed  to  the  embellishment 
of  his  writings.  150 

Mr.  Spectator 
(The  Spectator,  No.  i.    Thursday,  March  i,  1711.) 

I  have  observed  that  a  reader  seldom  peruses  a  book  with 
pleasure,  till  he  knows  whether  the  writer  of  it  be  a  black 
or  a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric  disposition,  married  or  a 
bachelor,  with  other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that 
conduce  very  much  to  the  right  understanding  of  an  author.  5 
To  gratify  this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  to  a  reader,  I 
design  this  paper,  and  my  next,  as  prefatory  discourses  to 
my  following  writings,  and  shall  give  some  account  in  them 
of  the  several  persons  that  are  engaged  in  this  v/ork.  As  the 
chief  trouble  of  compiling,  digesting,  and  correcting  will  10 
fall  to  my  share,  I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  open  the 
work  with  my  own  history. 

I  was  born  to  a  small  hereditary  estate,  which,  according 
to  the  tradition  of  the  village  where  it  lies,  was  bounded 


178  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

15  by  the  same  hedges  and  ditches  in  William  the  Conqueror's 
time  that  it  is  at  present,  and  has  been  delivered  down  from 
father  to  son  whole  and  entire,  without  the  loss  or  acquisition 
of  a  single  field  or  meadow,  during  the  space  of  six  hundred 
years.     There  runs  a  story  in  the  family  that  ray  mother 

20  dreamed  that  her  son  was  destined  tojbe  a  judge.  Whether 
this  might  proceed  from  a  law-suit  which  was  then  depending 
in  the  family,  or  my  father's  being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I 
cannot  determine;  for  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think  it  pre- 
saged any  dignity  that  I  should  arrive  at  in  my  future  life, 

25  though  that  was  the  interpretation  which  the  neighborhood 
put  upon  it.  The  gravity  of  my  behavior  at  my  very  first 
appearance  in  the  world  seemed  to  favor  my  mother's  dream ; 
for,  as  she  often  told  me,  I  threw  away  my  rattle  before  I 
was  two  months  old,  and  would  not  make  use  of  my  coral 

30  until  they  had  taken  away  the  bells  from  it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there  being  nothing  in  it 
remarkable,  I  shall  pass  it  over  in  silence.  I  find  that  during 
my  nonage  I  had  the  reputation  of  a  very  sullen  youth,  but 
was  always  a  favorite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used  to  say, 

35  that  my  parts  were  solid,  and  would  wear  well.  I  had  not 
been  long  at  the  university,  before  I  distinguished  myself  by 
a  most  profound  silence ;  for,  during  the  space  of  eight  years, 
excepting  in  the  public  exercises  of  the  college,  I  scarce 
uttered  the  quantity  of  a  hundred  words ;  and  indeed  do  not 

40  remember  that  I  ever  spoke  three  sentences  together  in  my 
whole  life.  Whilst  I  was  in  this  learned  body,  I  applied 
myself  with  so  much  diligence  to  my  studies,  that  there  are 
very  few  celebrated  books,  either  in  the  learned  or  the 
modern  tongues,  which  I  am  not  acquainted  with. 

45  Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was  resolved  to  travel  into 
foreign  countries,  and  therefore  left  the  university,  with  the 
character  of  an  odd  unaccountable  fellow,  that  had  a  great 
deal  of  learning,  if  I  would  but  show  it.     An  insatiable 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  179 

thirst  after  knowledge  carried  me  into  all  the  countries  of 
Europe,  in  which  there  was  anything  new  or  strange  to  be  50 
seen;  nay,  to  such  a  degree  was  my  curiosity  raised,  that 
having  read  the  controversies  of  some  great  men  concerning 
the  antiquities  of  Egypt,  I  made  a  voyage  to  Grand  Cairo, 
on  purpose  to  take  the  measure  of  a  p  vTamid ;  and  as  soon 
as  I  had  set  myself  right  in  that  particular,  returned  to  my  55 
native  country  with  great  satisfaction. 

I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this  city,  where  I  am  fre- 
quently seen  in  most  public  places,  though  there  are  not  above 
half  a  dozen  of  my  select  friends  that  know  me ;  of  whom  my 
next  paper  shall  give  a  more  particular  account.  There  60 
is  no  place  of  general  resort,  wherein  I  do  not  often  make 
my  appearance ;  sometimes  I  am  seen  thrusting  my  head 
into  a  round  of  politicians  at  Will's,  and  listening  with  great 
attention  to  the  narratives  that  are  made  in  those  little  cir- 
cular audiences.  Sometimes  I  smoke  a  pipe  at  Child's,  and  65 
whilst  I  seem- attentive  to  nothing  but  the  Postman,  overhear 
the  conversation  of  every  table  in  the  room.  I  appear  on 
Sunday  nights  at  St.  James's  coffee-house,  and  sometimes 
join  the  little  committee  of  politics  in  the  inner  room,  as  one 
who  comes  there  to  hear  and  improve.  My  face  is  likewise  70 
very  well  known  at  the  Grecian,  the  Cocoa-tree,  and  in  the 
theaters  both  of  Drury-Lane  and  the  Hay-market.  I  have 
been  taken  for  a  merchant  upon  the  Exchange  for  above  these 
ten  years,  and  sometimes  pass  for  a  Jew  in  the  assembly  of 
stock-jobbers  at  Jonathan's.  In  short,  wherever  I  see  a  75 
cluster  of  people,  I  always  mix  with  them,  though  I  never 
open  my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 

Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a  spectator  of  mankind, 
than  as  one  of  the  species,  by  which  means  I  have  made 
myself    a    speculative    statesman,    soldier,    merchant,    and  80 
artisan,  without  ever  meddling  with  any  practical  part  in 
life.     I  am  very  well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a  husband  or  a 


180  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

father,  and  can  discern  the  errors  in  the  economy,  business, 
and  diversion  of  others,  better  than  those  who  are  engaged 
85 in  them;  as  standers-by  discover  blots  which  are  apt  to 
escape  those  who  are  in  the  game.  I  never  espoused  any 
party  with  violence,  and  am  resolved  to  observe  an  exact 
neutrality  between  the  Whigs  and  Tories,  unless  I  shall  be 
forced  to  declare  myself  by  the  hostilities  of  either  side. 

90  In  short,  I  have  acted  in  all  the  parts  of  my  life  as  a  looker-on, 
which  is  the  character  I  intend  to  preserve  in  this  paper. 

I  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much  of  my  history  and 
character,  as  to  let  him  see  I  am  not  altogether  unqualified 
for  the  business  I  have  undertaken.     As  for  other  particulars 

95  in  my  life  and  adventures,  I  shall  insert  them  in  following 
papers,  as  I  shall  see  occasion.  In  the  meantime,  when  I 
consider  how  much  I  have  seen,  read,  and  heard,  I  begin  to 
blame  my  own  taciturnity;  and  since  I  have  neither  time 
nor  inclination,  to  communicate  the  fulness  of  my  heart  in 

100  speech,  I  am  resolved  to  do  it  in  writing,  and  to  print  myself 
out,  if  possible,  before  I  die.  I  have  been  often  told  by  my 
friends,  that  it  is  a  pity  so  many  useful  discoveries  which  I 
have  made  should  be  in  the  possession  of  a  silent  man.  For 
this  reason,  therefore,  I  shall  publish  a  sheet-full  of  thoughts 

105  every  morning,  for  the  benefit  of  my  contemporaries ;  and 
if  I  can  any  way  contribute  to  the  diversion  or  improvement 
of  the  country  in  which  I  live,  I  shall  leave  it  when  I  am 
summoned  out  of  it,  with  the  secret  satisfaction  of  thinking 
that  I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

110  There  are  three  very  material  points  which  I  have  not 
spoken  to  in  this  paper;  and  which,  for  several  important 
reasons,  I  must  keep  to  myself,  at  least  for  some  time  :  I 
mean,  an  account  of  my  name,  my  age,  and  my  lodgings.  I 
must  confess,  I  would  gratify  my  reader  in  anything  that  is 

115  reasonable ;  but  as  for  these  three  particulars,  though  I  am 
sensible  they  might  tend  very  much  to  the  embellishment 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  181 

of  my  paper,  I  cannot  yet  come  to  a  resolution  of  communi- 
cating them  to  the  pubHc.  They  would  indeed  draw  me  out 
of  that  obscurity  which  I  have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  and 
expose  me  in  public  places  to  several  salutes  and  civilities,  120 
which  have  been  always  very  disagreeable  to  me ;  for  the 
greatest  pain  I  can  suffer,  is  the  being  talked  to,  and  being 
stared  at.  It  is  for  this  reason  likewise,  that  I  keep  my 
complexion  and  dress  as  very  great  secrets ;  though  it  is  not 
impossible  but  I  may  make  discoveries  of  both  in  the  progress  125 
of  the  work  I  have  undertaken. 

After  having  been  thus  particular  upon  myself,  I  shall,  in 
to-morrow's  paper,  give  an  account  of  those  gentlemen  who 
are  concerned  with  me  in  this  work ;  for,  as  I  have  before 
intimated,  a  plan  of  it  is  laid  and  concerted,  as  all  other  130 
matters  of  importance  are,  in  a  club.  However,  as  my 
friends  have  engaged  me  to  stand  in  the  front,  tho^e  who 
have  a  mind  to  correspond  with  me  may  direct  their  letters 
to  the  Spectator,  a;t  Mr.  Buckley's,  in  Little  Britain.  For 
I  must  further  acquaint  the  reader,  that,  though  our  club  135 
meets  only  on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,  we  have  appointed 
a  committee  to  sit  every  night,  for  the  inspection  of  all  such 
papers  as  may  contribute  to  the  advancement  of  the  public 
weal. 


The  Vision  of  Mirzah 
(The  Spectator,  No.  159.    Saturday,  September  i,  171 1.) 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several  oriental 
manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I 
met  with  one  entitled  The  Visions  of  Mirzah,  which  I  have 
read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the 
public  when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for  them ;  and  5 
shall  begin  with  the  first  vision,  which  I  have  translated  word 
for  word  as  follows  : 


182  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the 
custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having 

10  washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I 
ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing 
myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life ;    and  passing 

15 from  one  thought  to  another,  'Surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a 
shadow,  and  life  a  dream.'  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I 
cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far 
from  me,  where  I  discovered  one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd, 
with  a  musical  instrument  in  his  hand.     As  I  looked  upon 

20  him  he  applied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The 
sound  of  it  was  exceedingly  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety 
of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  altogether 
different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in 
mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed 

25  souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  Paradise,  to 
wear  out  the  impressions  of  their  last  agonies,  and  qualify 
them  for  the  pleasures  of  that  happy  place.  My  heart 
melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

"I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the 

30  haunt  of  a  Genius ;  and  that  several  had  been  entertained 
with  music  who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the 
musician  had  before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had 
raised  my  thoughts  by  those  transporting  airs  which  he 
played  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked 

35  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by 
the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  approach  the  place 
where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence  which  is 
due  to  a  superior  nature;  and  as  my  heart  was  entirely 
subdued  by  the  captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down 

40  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  Genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a 
look  of  compassion  and  affability  that  familiarized  him  to 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  183 

my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  ap- 
prehensions with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me 
from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  'Mirzah,'  said 
he,  'I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  follow  me.'  45 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and 
placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  'Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said 
he,  'and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  'I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge 
valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.' 
*The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  the  Vale  of  Misery, 50 
and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  Tide 
of  Eternity.'  'What  is  the  reason,'  said  I,  'that  the  tide  I 
see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself 
in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other?'  'What  thou  seest,'  said  he, 
*is  that  portion  of  eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured  55 
out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world 
to  its  consummation.  Examine  now,'  said  he,  '  this  sea  that 
is  bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what 
thou  discoverest  in  it.'  'I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I,  'standing  in 
the  midst  of  the  tide.'  'The  bridge  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  60 
Human  Life :  consider  it  attentively.'  Upon  a  more  lei- 
surely survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  threescore 
and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which 
added  to  those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about 
a  hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  arches,  the  Genius  told  65 
me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand  arches ; 
but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge 
in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  'But  tell  me 
farther,'  said  he,  'what  thou  discoverest  on  it.'  'I  see  multi- 
tudes of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and  a  black  cloud 70 
hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I 
saw  several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge 
into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it;  and  upon 
farther  examination,  perceived  there  were  innumerable 
trap-doors    that   lay    concealed    in    the   bridge,    which   the  75 


184  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through  them 
into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden 
pit-falls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so 
that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud, 

80  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards 
the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards 
the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was 
very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the 

85  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite 
tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful 
structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  pre- 
sented.    My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to 

90  see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and 
jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that  stood  by  them  to 
save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens 
in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation 
stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.     Multitudes  were  very  busy 

95  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and 
danced  before  them;  but  often  when  they  thought  them- 
selves within  the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed  and  down 
they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  object,  I  observed  some  with 
scymetars  in  their  hands,  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the 
100  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors  which  did  not 
seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might  have  escaped 
had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 

"  The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  on  this  melancholy 
prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  'Take 
105  thine  eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thou  yet 
seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon  looking 
up,  'what  mean,'  said  I,  'those  great  flights  of  birds  that  are 
perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it 
from  time  to  time?     I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormo- 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  185 

rants,  and  among  many  other  feathered  creatures  several 
little  winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the 
middle  arches.'  'These,'  said  the  Genius,  'are  Envy, 
Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares 
and  passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas,'  said  I,  'Man  was  1 15 
made  in  vain  !  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality ! 
tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death ! '  The  Genius 
being  moved  with  compassion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so 
uncomfortable  a  prospect.  'Look  no  more,'  said  he,  'on 
man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  120 
eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick  mist  into  which 
the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of  mortals  that  fall 
into  it.'  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether 
or  no  the  good  Genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  125 
for  the  eye  to  penetrate),  I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the 
farther  end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean, 
that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst 
of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still 
rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  130 
nothing  in  it;  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean 
planted  with-  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with 
fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little 
shining  seas  that  ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons 
dressed  in  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  135 
passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains, 
or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers ;  and  could  hear  a  confused 
harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling  waters,  human  voices,  and 
musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon  the  dis- 
covery of  so  delightful  a  scene.  140 

"  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly 
away  to  those  happy  seats ;  but  the  Genius  told  me  there 
was  no  passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death 


186  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.     'The 

145  islands,'  said  he,  '  that  he  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee, 
and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted 
as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands 
on  the  sea-shore ;  there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those 
which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  farther  than  thine  eye, 

150  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself.  These  are  the 
mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the 
degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  dis- 
tributed among  these  several  islands,  which  abound  with 
pleasures   of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable    to    the 

155  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them ; 
every  island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective 
inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O  Mirzah,  habitations  worth 
contending  for?  Does  life  appear  miserable  that  gives  thee 
opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward  ?  Is  death  to  be  feared 

160  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not 
man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for 
him.' 

"I    gazed    with    inexpressible   pleasure  on  these    happy 
islands.     At  length,  said  I,  'Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee, 

165  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.'  The 
Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  me  about  to  address 
myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left 
me ;  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so 

170 long  contemplating;  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the 
arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels 
grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it.'* 


ALEXANDER  POPE  187 

ALEXANDER   POPE 

Memorable  Couplets  from  his  Poems 

{From  Essay  on  Criticism) 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing ; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring. 

Good  Nature  and  good  sense  must  ever  join ; 
To  err  is  human,  to  forgive,  divine. 

Let  such  teach  others  who  themselves  excel,  5 

And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 

Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend, 
And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend. 

'Tis  not  a  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call. 

But  the  joint  force  and  full  result  of  all.  10 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see. 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed. 

Words  are  like  leaves ;  and  where  they  most  abound,  15 

Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  seldom  found. 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold ; 

Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new  or  old  : 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried. 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside.  20 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

We  think  our  fathers  fools,  so  wise  we  grow ; 
Our  wiser  sons,  no  doubt,  will  think  us  so. 

{From  Essay  on  Man) 

Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 


188  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan ; 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man. 

5  Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 

As,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  famiUar  with  her  face. 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace. 

Order  is  Heaven's  first  law ;  and  this  confessed, 
10  Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the  rest. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 

A  wit's  a  feather,  and  a  chief's  a  rod ; 
An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 

{From  Moral  Essays) 

And  yet,  believe  me,  good  as  well  as  ill. 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still. 

Ip  men  we  various  ruling  passions  find ; 
In  women  two  almost  divide  the  kind ; 
5  Those,  only  fixed,  they  first  or  last  obey, 

The  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  sway. 

JAMES   THOMSON 

Winter 

{From  The  Seasons) 

See,  Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  year. 
Sullen  and  sad,  with  all  his  rising  train  — 
Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms.     Be  these  my  theme ; 
These,  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought, 
5  And  heavenly  musing.     Welcome,  kindred  glooms  1 

Congenial  horrors,  hail  I     With  frequent  foot. 
Pleased  have  I,  in  my  cheerful  morn  of  life. 
When  nurs'd  by  careless  solitude  I  lived. 


JAMES  THOMSON  189 

And  sung  of  Nature  with  unceasing  joy,  — 

Pleased  have  I  wandered  through  your  rough  domain;  10 

Trod  the  pure  virgin-snows,  myself  as  pure ; 

Heard  the  winds  roar,  and  the  big  torrent  burst ; 

Or  seen  the  deep  fermenting  tempest  brewed. 

In  the  grim  evening  sky. 


Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends,         15 
At  first  thin-wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  pm-est  white : 

'T  is  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow  melts  20 

Along  the  mazy  ciurent.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head ;  and  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 

Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide  25 

The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer-ox 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven. 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 

The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon  30 

Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky. 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves  *• 

His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man  35 

His  annual  visit.     Half-afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats ;   then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;  then  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance. 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is ;  40 

Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare, 


190  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
46  By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and  dogs. 

And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 
Urged  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glistening  earth. 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 
50  ,     .    Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

Spring 

{From  The  Seasons) 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness,  come. 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud. 
While  music  wakes  around,  veiled  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend. 


5  And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off. 

Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts  : 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill. 
The  shattered  forest,  and  the  ravaged  vale ; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch 

10  Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost. 

The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 
As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed, 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 

15  Deform  the  day  delightless ;   so  that  scarce 

The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  engulfed 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh ;  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath. 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listening  waste. 

20  At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  Sun, 

And  the  bright  Bull  receives  him.     Then  no  more 
The  expansive  atmosphere  is  cramped  with  cold ; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul. 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime,  and  spreads  them  thin. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  191 

Fleecy,  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven.  25 

Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs,  and  unconfined, 

Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 

Joyous,  the  impatient  husbandman  perceives 

Relenting  Natm-e,  and  his  lusty  steers 

Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well-used  plough  30 

Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosened  from  the  frost. 

There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harnessed  yoke 

They  lend  their  shoulder,  and  begin  their  toil, 

Cheered  by  the  simple  song  and  soaring  lark. 

Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share  35 

The  master  leans,  removes  the  obstructing  clay. 

Winds  the  whole  work  and  sidelong  lays  the  glebe. 

White,  through  the  neighboring  fields  the  sower  stalks, 

With  measured  step ;  and  Hberal,  throws  the  grain 

Into  the  faithful  bosom  of  the  ground  :  40 

The  harrow  follows  harsh,  ai^d  shuts  the  scene. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON 
Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield 

February  7,  1755. 

To  THE  Right  Honorable  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield. 

MY  lord, 

I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprietor  of  the 
W^orld,  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  rec-5 
ommended  to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  Lordship. 
To  be  so  distinguished,  is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little 
accustomed  to  favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to 
receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your  10 
Lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by 
the  enchantment  of  your  address;   and  could  not  forbear  to 


192  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

wish  that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur 
de  la  terre;  —  that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I 

15 saw  the  world  contending;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so 
little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would 
suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  your 
Lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing 
which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.     I  had 

20  done  all  that  I  could ;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his 
all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited  in 
your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during 
which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  diffi- 

25  culties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought 
it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of 
assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor. 
Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  Patron 
before. 

30  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern 
on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached   ground,   encumbers   him   with   help?     The   notice 

35  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it 
been  early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I 
am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary, 
and  cannot  impart  it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want 
it.     I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical    asperity,  not  to  confess 

40  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be 
unwilling  that  the  Public  should  consider  me  as  owing 
that  to  a  Patron,  which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do 
for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obliga- 

45  tion  to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed 
though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less; 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  193 

for  I  have  been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in 
which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation, 

My  Lord, 
Your  Lordship's  most  humble  50 

Most  obedient  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 


Letter  to  James  Macpherson 
Mr.  James  Macpherson, 

I  received  your  foolish  and  impudent  letter.     Any  violence 
offered  me  I  shall  do  my  best  to  repel ;   and  what  I  cannot 
do  for  myself,  the  law  shall  do  for  me.     I  hope  I  shall  never 
be  deterred  from  detecting  what  I  think  a  cheat,  by  the  5 
menaces  of  a  ruffian. 

What  would  you  have  me  retract?  I  thought  your  book 
an  imposture ;  I  think  it  an  imposture  still.  For  this  opinion 
I  have  given  my  reasons  to  the  public,  which  I  here  dare  you 
to  refute.  Your  rage  I  defy.  Your  abilities,  since  your  10 
Homer,  are  not  so  formidable;  and  what  I  hear  of  your 
morals  inclines  me  to  pay  regard  not  to  what  you  shall  say, 
but  to  what  you  shall  prove.     You  may  print  this  if  you  will. 

Sam  Johnson. 


A  Dissertation  on  the  Art  of  Flying 
(From  Rasselas,  Chap.  VI) 

Among  the  artists  that  had  been  allured  into  the  happy 
valley,  to  labor  for  the  accommodation  and  pleasure  of  its 
inhabitants,  was  a  man  eminent  for  his  knowledge  of  the 
mechanic  powers,  who  had  contrived  many  engines  both  of 
use  and  recreation.  By  a  wheel,  which  the  stream  turned,  5 
he  forced  the  water  into  a  tower,  whence  it  was  distributed 


194  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

to  all  the  apartments  of  the  palace.  He  erected  a  pavilion 
in  the  garden,  around  which  he  kept  the  air  always  cool  by 
artificial  showers.     One  of  the  groves  appropriated  to  the 

10  ladies  was  ventilated  by  fans,  to  which  the  rivulet  that  ran 
through  it  gave  a  constant  motion;  and  instruments  of 
soft  music  were  placed  at  proper  distances,  of  which  some 
played  by  the  impulse  of  the  wind,  and  some  by  the  power  of 
the  stream. 

15  The  artist  was  sometimes  visited  by  Rasselas,  who  was 
pleased  with  every  kind  of  knowledge,  imagining  that  the  time 
would  come  when  all  his  acquisitions  should  be  of  use  to 
him  in  the  open  world.  He  came  one  day  to  amuse  himself 
in  his  usual  manner,  and  found  the  master  busy  in  building 

20  a  sailing  chariot ;  he  saw  that  the  design  was  practicable  on 
a  level  surface,  and  with  expressions  of  great  esteem  solicited 
its  completion.  The  workman  was  pleased  to  find  himself  so 
much  regarded  by  the  prince,  and  resolved  to  gain  yet  higher 
honors.     "Sir,"  said  he,  "you  have  seen  but  a  small  part  of 

25  what  the  mechanic  sciences  can  perform.  I  have  been  long 
of  opinion,  that  instead  of  the  tardy  conveyance  of  ships  and 
chariots,  man  might  use  the  swifter  migration  of  wings; 
that  the  fields  of  air  are  open  to  knowledge,  and  that  only 
ignorance  and  idleness  need  crawl  upon  the  ground." 

30  This  hint  rekindled  the  prince's  desire  of  passing  the 
mountains;  having  seen  what  the  mechanist  had  already 
performed,  he  was  willing  to  fancy  that  he  could  do  more; 
yet  resolved  to  inquire  further,  before  he  suffered  hope  to 
afflict  him  by  disappointment.     "  I  am  afraid,"  said  he  to  the 

35  artist,  "  that  your  imagination  prevails  over  your  skill,  and 
that  you  now  tell  me  rather  what  you  wish  than  what  you 
know.  Every  animal  has  his  element  assigned  to  him ;  the 
birds  have  the  air,  and  man  and  beasts  the  earth."  "So," 
replied  the  mechanist,  "fishes  have  the  water  in  which  yet 

40  beasts  can  swim  by  nature,  and  men  by  art.     He  that  can 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  195 

swim  needs  not  despair  to  fly :  to  swim  is  to  fly  in  a  grosser 
fluid,  and  to  fly  is  to  swim  in  a  subtler.  We  are  only  to 
proportion  our  power  of  resistance  to  the  different  density 
of  matter  through  which  we  are  to  pass.  You  will  be  neces- 
sarily upborne  by  the  air,  if  you  can  renew  any  impulse  upon  45 
it  faster  than  the  air  can  recede  from  the  pressure." 

"But  the  exercise  of  swimming,"   said  the  prince,   "is 
very  laborious;    the  strongest  limbs  are  soon  wearied;    I 
am  afraid  the  act  of  flying  will  be  yet  more  violent;    and 
wings  will  be  of  no  great  use  unless  we  can  fly  further  than  50 
we  can  swim." 

"The  labor  of  rising  from  the  ground,"  said  the  artist, 
"will  be  great,  as  we  see  it  in  the  heavier  domestic  fowls; 
but  as  we  mount  higher,  the  earth's  attraction  and  the  body's 
gravity  will  be  gradually  diminished,  till  we  shall  arrive  at  a  55 
region  where  the  man  will  float  in  the  air  without  any  ten- 
dency to  fall ;    no  care  will  then  be  necessary  but  to  move 
forwards,  which  the  gentlest  impulse  Avill  effect.     You,  sir, 
whose  curiosity  is  so  extensive,  will  easily  conceive  with  what 
pleasure  a  philosopher,  furnished  with  wings,  and  hovering  60 
in  the  sky,  would  see  the  earth  and  all  its  inhabitants  rolling 
beneath  him,   and  presenting  to  him  successively,   by  its 
diurnal  motion,  all  the  countries  within  the  same  parallel. 
How  must  it  amuse  the  pendant  spectator  to  see  the  moving 
scene  of  land  and  ocean,  cities  and  deserts  !     To  survey  with  65 
equal  serenity  the  marts  of  trade  and  the  fields  of  battle; 
mountains    infested    by    barbarians,    and    fruitful  regions 
gladdened  by  plenty  and  lulled  by  peace !     How  easily  shall 
we  then  trace  the  Nile  through  all  his  passage ;  pass  over  to 
distant  regions,  and  examine  the  face  of  nature  from  one  70 
extremity  of  the  earth  to  the  other!" 

"All  this,"  said  the  prince,  "is  much  to  be  desired,  but  I 
am  afraid  that  no  man  will  be  able  to  breathe  in  these  regions 
of  speculation  and  tranquillity.     I  have  been  told,   that 


196  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

75  respiration  is  difficult  upon  lofty  mountains,  yet  from  these 
precipices,  though  so  high  as  to  produce  great  tenuity  of  air, 
it  is  very  easy  to  fall ;  therefore  I  suspect  that,  from  any 
height  where  life  can  be  supported,  there  may  be  danger  of 
too  quick  descent." 

80  "Nothing,"  replied  the  artist,  "will  ever  be  attempted,  if 
all  possible  objections  must  be  first  overcome.  If  you  will 
favor  my  project,  I  will  try  the  first  flight  at  my  own  hazard. 
I  have  considered  the  structure  of  all  volant  animals,  and 
find  the  folding  continuity  of  the  bat's  wings  most  easily 

85  accommodated  to  the  human  form.  Upon  this  model  I 
shall  begin  my  task  to-morrow,  and  in  a  year  expect  to  tower 
into  the  air  beyond  the  malice  and  pursuit  of  man.  But  I 
will  work  only  on  this  condition,  that  the  art  shall  not  be 
divulged,  and  that  you  shall  not  require  me  to  make  wings  for 

90  any  but  ourselves." 

"Why,"  said  Rasselas,  "should  you  envy  others  so  great 
an  advantage?  All  skill  ought  to  be  exerted  for  universal 
good;  every  man  has  owed  much  to  others,  and  ought  to 
repay  the  kindness  that  he  has  received." 

95  "If  men  were  all  virtuous,"  returned  the  artist,  "I  should 
with  great  alacrity  teach  them  all  to  fly.  But  what  would 
be  the  security  of  the  good,  if  the  bad  could  at  pleasure  invade 
them  from  the  sky?  Against  an  army  sailing  through  the 
clouds,  neither  walls,  nor  mountains,  nor  seas,  could  afford 

100  any  security.  A  flight  of  northern  savages  might  hover  in 
the  wind,  and  light  at  once  with  irresistible  violence  upon  the 
capital  of  a  fruitful  region  that  was  rolling  under  them.  Even 
this  valley,  the  retreat  of  princes,  the  abode  of  happiness, 
might  be  violated  by  the  sudden  descent  of  some  of  the  naked 

105  nations  that  swarm  on  the  coast  of  the  southern  sea." 

The  prince  promised  secrecy,  and  waited  for  the  perform- 
ance, not  wholly  hopeless  of  success.  He  visited  the  work 
from  time  to  time,  observed  its  progress,  and  remarked  many 


JAMES  BOSWELL  197 

ingenious  contrivances  to  facilitate  motion,   and  to  unite 
levity  with  strength.     The  artist  was  every  day  more  certain  no 
that  he  should  leave  vultures  and  eagles  behind  him,  and  the 
contagion  of  his  confidence  seized  upon  the  prince. 

In  a  year  the  wings  were  finished,  and  on  a  morning  ap- 
pointed the  maker  appeared,  furnished  for  flight,  on  a  little 
promontory ;  he  waved  his  pinions  awhile  to  gather  air,  then  115 
leaped  from  his  stand,  and  in  an  instant  dropped  into  the 
lake.  His  wings,  which  were  of  no  use  in  the  air,  sustained 
him  in  the  water,  and  the  prince  drew  him  to  land,  half 
dead  with  terror  and  vexation. 


JAMES   BOSWELL 

First  Meeting  with  Johnson 
{From  Life  of  Johnson) 

At  last,  on  Monday,  the  16th  of  May,  when  I  was  sitting 
in  Mr.  Davies's  backparlor,  after  having  dnmk  tea  with  him 
and  Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly  came  into  the  shop ; 
and  Mr.  Davies  having  perceived  him  through  the  glass- 
door  in  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  advancing  towards  5 
us,  —  he  announced  his  awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in 
the  manner  of  an  actor  in  the  part  of  Horatio,  when  he  ad- 
dresses Hamlet  on  the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost: 
"Look,  my  Lord,  It  comes!"  I  found  that  I  had  a  very 
perfect  idea  of  Johnson's  figure,  from  the  portrait  of  him  10 
painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  after  he  had  published 
his  Dictionary,  in  the  attitude  of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  in 
deep  meditation;  which  was  the  first  picture  his  friend  did 
for  him,  which  Sir  Joshua  very  kindly  presented  to  me,  and 
from  which  an  engraving  has  been  made  for  this  work.  Mr.  15 
Davies  mentioned  my  name,  and  respectfully  introduced  me 
to  him.     I  was  much  agitated ;    and  recollecting  his  prej- 


198  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

udice  against  the  Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I 
said  to  Davies,  "Don't  tell  where  I  come  from."  —  "From 

20 Scotland,"  cried  Davies,  roguishly.  "Mr.  Johnson,"  said 
I,  "I  do  indeed  come  from  Scotland,  but  I  cannot  help  it." 
I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  that  I  meant  this  a  slight  pleas- 
antry to  soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and  not  as  a  humiliating 
abasement  at  the  expense  of  my  country.     But  however 

25  that  might  be,  this  speech  was  somewhat  unlucky ;  for  with 
that  quickness  of  wit  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he 
seized  the  expression  "come  from  Scotland,"  which  I  used 
in  the  sense  of  being  of  that  country ;  and,  as  if  I  had  said 
that  I  had  come  away  from  it,  or  left  it,  retorted,   "That, 

30  Sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very  great  many  of  your  countrymen 
cannot  help."  This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal;  and 
when  we  had  sat  down,  I  felt  myself  not  a  little  embarrassed, 
and  apprehensive  of  what  might  come  next.  He  then 
addressed  himself  to  Davies :    "  What  do  you  think  of  Gar- 

35 rick?  He  has  refused  me  an  order  for  the  play  for  Miss 
Williams,  because  he  knows  the  house  will  be  full,  and  that 
an  order  would  be  worth  three  shillings."  Eager  to  take 
any  opening  to  get  into  conversation  with  him,  I  ventured  to 
say,  "  Oh,  Sir,  I  cannot  think  Mr.  Garrick  would  grudge  such 

40a  trifle  to  you."  "Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  stern  look,  "I  have 
known  David  Garrick  longer  than  you  have  done :  and  I 
know  no  right  you  have  to  talk  to  me  on  the  subject."  Per- 
haps I  deserved  this  check ;  for  it  was  rather  presumptuous  in 
me,  an  entire  stranger,  to  express  any  doubt  of  the  justice 

45  of  his  animadversion  upon  his  old  acquaintance  and  pupil. 
I  now  felt  myself  much  mortified,  and  began  to  think  that 
the  hope  which  I  had  long  indulged  of  obtaining  his  acquaint- 
ance was  blasted.  And,  in  truth,  had  not  my  ardor  been 
uncommonly  strong,  and  my  resolution  uncommonly  per- 

60  severing,  so  rough  a  reception  might  have  deterred  me  for 
ever    from    making    any    further    attempts.     Fortunately, 


JAMES  BOSWELL  199 

however,  I  remained  upon  the  field  not  wholly  discomfited ; 
and  was  soon  rewarded  by  hearing  some  of  his  conversation. 


Character  of  Goldsmith 
(From  Life  of  Johnson) 

As  Dr.  Oliver  Goldsmith  will  frequently  appear  in  this 
narrative,  I  shall  endeavor  to  make  my  readers  in  some  degree 
acquainted  with  his  singular  character.  He  was  a  native  of 
Ireland,  and  a  contemporary  with  Mr.  Burke,  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin,  but  did  not  then  give  much  promise  of  future  5 
celebrity.  He,  however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that 
"  though  he  made  no  great  figure  in  mathematics,  which  was 
a  study  in  much  repute  there,  he  could  turn  an  Ode  of 
Horace  into  English  better  than  any  of  them."  He  after- 
wards studied  physic  at  Edinburgh,  and  upon  the  Conti-lO 
nent:  and  I  have  been  informed,  was  enabled  to  pursue  his 
travels  on  foot,  partly  by  demanding  at  Universities  to  enter 
the  lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according  to  the  custom  of 
many  of  them,  he  was  entitled  to  the  premium  of  a  crown, 
when  luckily  for  him  his  challenge  was  not  accepted ;  so  15 
that,  as  I  once  observed  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  disputed  his 
passage  through  Europe.  He  then  came  to  England,  and 
was  employed  successively  in  the  capacities  of  an  usher  to 
an  academy,  a  corrector  of  the  press,  a  reviewer,  and  a  writer 
for  a  newspaper.  He  had  sagacity  enough  to  cultivate  assid-  20 
uously  the  acquaintance  of  Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were 
gradually  enlarged  by  the  contemplation  of  such  a  model. 
To  me  and  many  others  it  appeared  that  he  studiously  copied 
the  manner  of  Johnson,  though,  indeed,  upon  a  smaller  scale. 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  published  nothing  with  his  25 
name,  though  it  was  pretty  generally  known  that  one  Dr. 
Goldsmith  was  the  author  of  "An  Inquiry  into  the  Present 
State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,"  and  of  "The  Citizen 


200  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

of  the  World,"  a  series  of  letters  supposed  to  be  written  from 

30  London  by  a  Chinese.  No  man  had  the  art  of  displaying 
with  more  advantage  as  a  writer,  whatever  literary  ac- 
quisitions he  made.  Nihil  quod  tetigit  rum  ornavit.  His 
mind  resembled  a  fertile  but  thin  soil.  There  was  a  quick, 
but  not  a  strong  vegetation,  of  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown 

35  upon  it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck.  The  oak  of  the 
forest  did  not  grow  there ;  but  the  elegant  shrubbery  and  the 
fragrant  parterre  appeared  in  gay  succession.  It  has  been 
generally  circulated  and  believed  that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in 
conversation ;  but,  in  truth,  this  has  been  greatly  exaggerated. 

40  He  had,  no  doubt,  a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry 
of  ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  countrymen,  and  which 
sometimes  produces  a  laughable  confusion  in  expressing  them. 
He  was  very  much  what  the  French  call  un  etourdi,  and  from 
vanity  and  an  eager  desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever  he 

45  was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly  without  knowledge  of  the 
subject,  or  even  without  thought.  His  person  was  short, 
his  countenance  coarse  and  vulgar,  his  deportment  that  of 
a  scholar  awkwardly  affecting  the  easy  gentleman.  Those 
who  were  in  any  way  distinguished,  excited  envy  in  him  to 

50  so  ridiculous  an  excess,  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly 
credible.  When  accompanying  two  beautiful  young  ladies 
with  their  mother  on  a  tour  in  France,  he  was  seriously 
angry  that  more  attention  was  paid  to  them  than  to  him ; 
and  once  at  the  exhibition  of  the  Fantoccini  in  London,  when 

55  those  who  sat  next  him  observed  with  what  dexterity  a 
puppet  was  made  to  toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear  that  it 
should  have  such  praise,  and  exclaimed  with  some  warmth, 
"Pshaw !  I  can  do  it  better  myself." 

He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system  of  any  sort,  so  that 

60 his  conduct  must  not  be  strictly  scrutinized;  but  his  affec- 
tions were  social  and  generous,  and  when  he  had  money  he 
gave  it  away  very  liberally.     His  desire  of  imaginary  con- 


JAMES  BOSWELL  201 

sequence  predominated  over  his  attention  to  truth.  When 
he  began  to  rise  into  notice,  he  said  he  had  a  brother  who  was 
Dean  of  Durham,  a  fiction  so  easily  detected,  that  it  is  65 
wonderful  how  he  should  have  been  so  inconsiderate  as  to 
hazard  it.  He  boasted  to  me  at  this  time  of  the  power  of  his 
pen  in  commanding  money,  which  I  believe  was  true  in  a 
certain  degree,  though  in  the  instance  he  gave  he  was  by  no 
means  correct.  He  told  me  that  he  had  sold  a  novel  for  70 
four  hundred  pounds.  This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 
But  Johnson  informed  me,  that  he  had  made  the  bargain  for 
Goldsmith,  and  the  price  was  sixty  pounds.  "  And,  Sir  (said 
he),  a  sufficient  price  too,  when  it  was  sold ;  for  then  the 
fame  of  Goldsmith  had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards  75 
was,  by  his  Traveller;  and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes 
of  profit  by  his  bargain,  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a 
long  time,  and  did  not  publish  it  till  after  the  Traveller  had 
appeared.  Then,  to  be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more 
money."  80 

Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have  strangely  mis- 
stated the  history  of  Goldsmith's  situation  and  Johnson's 
friendly  interference,  when  this  novel  was  sold.  I  shall 
give  it  authentically  from  Johnson's  own  exact  narration : 

"  I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  85 
that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to 
come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as 
possible.     I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to 
him  directly.     I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed, 
and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  90 
at  which  he  was  in  violent  passion.     I  perceived  that  he  had 
already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  bottle  of  Madeira 
and  a  glass  before  him.     I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle, 
desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the 
means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.     He  then  told  me  95 
that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to 


202  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

me.  I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit ;  told  the  landlady 
I  should  soon  return,  and  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold 
it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and 
100  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in 
a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

Johnson's  Manner  of  Talking 
{From  Life  of  Johnson) 

Let  me  here  apologize  for  the  imperfect  manner  in  which 
I  am  obliged  to  exhibit  Johnson's  conversation  at  this  period. 
In  the  early  part  of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  I  was  so 
wrapt  in  admiration  of  his  extraordinary  colloquial  talents, 
5  and  so  little  accustomed  to  his  peculiar  mode  of  expression, 
that  I  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  recollect  and  record  his 
conversation  with  its  genuine  vigor  and  vivacity.  In  prog- 
ress of  time,  when  my  mind  was,  as  it  were,  strongly  impreg- 
nated with  the  Johnsonian  cether,  I  could  with  much  more 
10  facility  and  exactness,  carry  in  my  memory  and  commit 
to  paper  the  exuberant  variety  of  his  wisdom  and  wit. 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

The  Village  Preacher 

{From  The  Deserted  Village) 

Sweet  Auburn  I  loveliest  village  of  the  plain ; 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed  : 
5         Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please. 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  1 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
10         The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  203 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  1 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,  16 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 

The  yoimg  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ;  20 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown  26 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove.  30 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these. 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please  : 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed  : 

These  were  thy  charms  —  but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled,  36 

And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ;  40 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  washed  to  change  his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize,  46 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 


204  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings  but  reUeved  their  pain : 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

60         Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 

66         Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 

Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

60         His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
,  He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 

65         And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 

70         And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

75  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  camef  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

80         With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  205 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  : 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given,  86 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cUff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.  90 


The  Schoolmaster 

(From  The  Deserted  Village) 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way. 
With  blossomed  furze  vmprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ;  6 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ;  10 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew :  16 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 

For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ;  20 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 


206  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Edmund  Burke 
(From  The  Retaliation) 

'  Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 

We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind  : 
6         Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining ; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
10         Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

For  a  patriot  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort. 

Give  ear  unto  my  song; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short,  —  * 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

6  In  Islington  there  was  a  man 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say. 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran,  — 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
10  To  comfort  friends  and  foes  : 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad,  — 
When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 
As  many  dogs  there  be, 
15  Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 


EDMUND  BURKE  207 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man.  20 

Aroimd  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 

The  wondering  people  ran. 
And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 

To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad  25 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied ;  30 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite ; 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


EDMUND    BURKE 

The  Proper  Attitude  toward  America 
(From  Letter  to  the  Sheriffs  of  Bristol) 

I  think  I  know  America.  If  I  do  not,  my  ignorance  is 
incurable,  for  I  have  spared  no  pains  to  understand  it :  and 
I  do  most  solemnly  assure  those  of  my  constituents  who  put 
any  sort  of  confidence  in  my  industry  and  integrity,  that 
every  thing  that  has  been  done  there  has  arisen  from  a  total  5 
misconception  of  the  object;  that  our  means  of  originally 
holding  America,  that  our  means  of  reconciling  with  it  after 
quarrel,  of  recovering  it  after  separation,  of  keeping  it  after 
victory,  did  depend,  and  must  depend  in  their  several  stages 
and  periods,  upon  a  total  renunciation  of  that  unconditional  lO 
submission,  which  has  taken  such  possession  of  the  minds 
of  violent  men.     The  whole  of  those  maxims,  upon  which 


208  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

we  have  made  and  continued  this  war,  must  be  abandoned. 
Nothing  indeed  (for  I  would  not  deceive  you)  can  place  us 

15  in  our  former  situation.  That  hope  must  be  laid  aside. 
But  there  is  a  difference  between  bad  and  the  worst  of  all. 
Terms  relative  to  the  cause  of  the  war  ought  to  be  offered 
by  the  authority  of  parliament.  An  arrangement  at  home 
promising  some  security  for  them  ought  to  be  made.     By 

20  doing  this,  without  the  least  impairing  of  our  strength,  we 
add  to  the  credit  of  our  moderation,  which,  in  itself,  is  always 
strength  more  or  less. 

I  know  many  have  been  taught  to  think,  that  moderation, 
in  a  case  like  this,  is  a  sort  of  treason ;  and  that  all  arguments 

25  for  it  are  sufficiently  answered  by  railing  at  rebels  and  rebel- 
lion, and  by  charging  all  the  present  or  future  miseries,  which 
we  may  suffer,  on  the  resistance  of  our  brethren.  But  I 
would  wish  them,  in  this  grave  matter,  and  if  peace  is  not 
wholly  removed   from  their  hearts,   to  consider    seriously, 

30  first,  that  to  criminate  and  recriminate  never  yet  was  the 
road  to  reconciliation,  in  any  difference  amongst  men.  In 
the  next  place,  it  would  be  right  to  reflect,  that  the  American 
English  (whom  they  may  abuse,  if  they  think  it  honourable 
to  revile  the  absent)  can,  as  things  now  stand,  neither  be 

35  provoked  at  our  railing,  nor  bettered  by  our  instruction. 
All  communication  is  cut  off  between  us,  but  this  we  know 
with  certainty,  that,  though  we  cannot  reclaim  them,  we 
may  reform  ourselves.  If  measures  of  peace  are  necessary, 
they  must  begin  somewhere;    and   a  conciliatory   temper 

40  must  precede  and  prepare  every  plan  of  reconciliation.  Nor 
do  I  conceive  that  we  suffer  anything  by  thus  regulating  our 
own  minds.  We  are  not  disarmed  by  being  disencumbered 
of  our  passions.  Declaiming  on  rebellion  never  added  a 
bayonet,  or  a  charge  of  powder,  to  your  military  force ;   but 

45 1  am  afraid  that  it  has  been  the  means  of  taking  up  many 
muskets  against  you. 


EDMUND  BURKE  209 

This  outrageous  language,  which  has  been  encouraged 
and  kept  alive  by  every  art,  has  already  done  incredible 
mischief.     For  a  long  time,   even   amidst  the  desolations 
of  war  and  the  insults  of  hostile  laws  daily  accumulated  on  50 
one  another,  the  American  leaders  seem  to  have  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  bringing  up  their  people  to  a  declara- 
tion of  total  independence.     But  the  court  gazette  accom- 
plished what  the  abettors  of  independence  had  attempted  in 
vain.     When   that  disingenuous   compilation,   and   strange  55 
medley  of  railing  and  flattery,  was  adduced  as  a  proof  of 
the  united  sentiments  of  the  people  of  Great  Britain,  there 
was  a  great  change  throughout  all  America.     The  tide  of" 
popular  affection,  which  had  still  set  towards  the  parent 
country,  begun  immediately  to  turn,  and  to  flow  with  great  60 
rapidity  in  a  contrary  course.     Far  from  concealing  these 
wild  declarations  of  enmity,  the  author  of  the  celebrated 
pamphlet,  which  prepared  the  minds  of  the  people  for  inde- 
pendence, insists  largely  on  the  multitude  and  the  spirit 
of  these  addresses;    and  he  draws  an  argument  from  them, 65 
which  (if  the  fact  was  as  he  supposes)  must  be  irresistible. 
For  I  never  knew  a  writer  o"n  the  theory  of  government  so 
partial  to  authority  as  not  to  allow,  that  the  hostile  mind 
of  the  rulers  to  their  people  did  fully  justify  a  change  of  gov- 
ernment;   nor  can  any  reason  whatever  be  given,  why  one  70 
people  should  voluntarily  yield  any  degree  of  preeminence 
to  another,  but  on  a  supposition  of  great  affection  and  benevo- 
lence towards  them.     Unfortunately  your  rulers,   trusting 
to  other  things,  took  no  notice  of  this  great  principle  of  con- 
nexion.    From  the  beginning  of  this  affair,  they  have  doners 
all  they  could  to  alienate  your  minds  from  your  own  kindred ; 
and  if  they  could  excite  hatred  enough  in  one  of  the  parties 
towards  the  other,  they  seemed  to  be  of  opinion  that  they 
had  gone  half  the  way  towards  reconciling  the  quarrel.. 


210  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  his  Son 
{From  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord) 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of  succes- 
sion, I  should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity,  and 
the  mediocrity  of  the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a 
family;  I  should  have  left  a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in 
6  which  personal  merit  can  be  viewed,  in  science,  in  erudition, 
in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honour,  in  generosity,  in  humanity, 
in  every  liberal  sentiment,  and  every  liberal  accomplishment, 
would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford, or  to  any  of  those  whom  he  traces  in  his  line.     His 

10  Grace  very  soon  would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his 
attack  upon  that  provision  which  belonged  more  to  mine 
than  to  me.  HE  would  soon  have  supplied  every  deficiency, 
and  symmetrized  every  disproportion.  It  would  not  have 
been  for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant  wasting 

15  reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in 
himself  a  salient,  living  spring  of  generous  and  manly  action. 
Every  day  he  lived  he  would  have  re-purchased  the  bounty 
of  the  Crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had 
received.     He  was  made  a  public  creature;    and  had  no 

20  enjoyment  whatever,  but  in  the  performance  of  some  duty. 
At  this  exigent  moment,  the  loss  of  a  finished  man  is  not 
easily  supplied. 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist, 
and  whose  wisdom  it  behoves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has 

25  ordained  it  in  another  manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous 
weakness  might  suggest)  a  far  better.  The  storm  has  gone 
over  me ;  and  I  lie  like  one  of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late 
hurricane  has  scattered  about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my 
honours,  I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the 

30  earth  I  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I  most  unfeignedly 
recognize  the  Divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree  submit  to 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  211 

it.  But  whilst  I  humble  myself  before  God,  I  do  not  know 
that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  unjust  and  incon- 
siderate men.  The  patience  of  Job  is  proverbial.  After 
some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he  35 
submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  But 
even  so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending,  and  with 
a  considerable  degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those  ill-natured 
neighbours  of  his,  who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read  moral, 
political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his  misery.  I  am  alone.  40 
I  have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my 
Lord,  I  greatly  deceive  myself,  if  in  this  hard  season  I  would 
give  a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  is  called  fame  and  honour 
in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a 
luxury,  it  is  a  privilege,  it  is  an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  45 
at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all  of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace, 
as  we  are  made  to  shrink  from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease. 
It  is  an  instinct ;  and  under  the  direction  of  reason,  instinct 
is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order.  They  who 
ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me.  They  who  50 
should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of  ances- 
tors. I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  subsist 
in  memory)  that  act  of  piety,  which  he  would  have  performed 
to  me ;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent.  65 

WILLIAM    COLLINS 
Ode 

(Written  in  thp  beginning  of  the  year  1746) 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 

By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 

When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 

Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 

She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod  6 

Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 


212  ,    ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
10  To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  I 


Ode  to  Evening 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song. 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear. 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

5         O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the   weak-eyed   bat, 
10         With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 
15  Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit. 
As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
20  Thy  genial  loved  return  1 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day. 


WILLLA.M  COLLINS  213 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge,  25 

And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  cahn  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 

Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-haUowed  pile  30 

Or  upland  fallows  gray 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ; 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  Ungering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ;  46 

Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, . 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  rose-Upped  Health,  50 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favorite  name  1 


214  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

THOMAS   GRAY 
Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

5  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
10  The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such,  as  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
15  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 
The  cock's,  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
20  No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

25  Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  I 


THOMAS  GRAY  215 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ;  30 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile. 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Awaits  alike  the  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 

If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  np  trophies  raise. 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed. 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page  , 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ;  50 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Fidl  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene. 

The  dark  unf athomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood.  60 


216  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

65         Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circmnscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
70  To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
75         Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculptiore  decked, 
80  Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse. 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

85         For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
90  Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


THOMAS  GRAY  217 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead 

Dost  in  these  Unes  their  artless  tale  relate ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove. 
Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 

Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite  tree ;  110 

Another  came ; .  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay,  115 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frovmed  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own.  120 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gained  from,  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  unshed)  a  friend. 


218  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

125  No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
{There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


WILLIAM   COWPER 

On  Human  Slavery 

(From  The  Task,  Book  II) 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
S*  Might  never  reach  me  more  1    My  ear  is  pained, 

My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  mth  which  earth  is  filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man ;  the  natural  bond 

*0  Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colored  like  his  own,  and,  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 

15  Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 

20  Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 

And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  himian  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
•  With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 

25  Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

Then  what  is  man  ?     And  what  man  seeing  this. 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 


WILLIAM  COWPER  219 

And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,  30 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 

No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 

Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave  35 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 

We  have  no  slaves  at  home :  then  why  abroad  ? 

And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 

That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England ;  if  their  lungs  40 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free ; 

They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 

That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 

And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then. 

And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein  45 

Of  all  your  empire ;  that  where  Britain's  power 

Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin 

Mary  1  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings. 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  feigned  they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new. 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things  ! 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings,  5 

I  may  record  thy  worth,  with  honor  due. 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true. 
Verse  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  book, 

By  seraphs  writ  \sath  beams  of  heavenly  light,  10 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look ; 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright ; 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 
And  since  thou  ownest  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 


220  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

ROBERT  BURNS 
To  a  Mouse 

1  ON  TURNINQ  UP  HEK  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH,  NOVBMBBB,  1786 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  1 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin  brattle  1 
6  I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle  I 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  natm-e's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 
10  Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 
An'  fellow-mortal  I 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve : 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maim  live  I 
16  A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss  't  I 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  I 
20  Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  I 

An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O' foggage  green  I 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 

26  Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste. 

An'  weary  winter  comin  fast. 

An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast 
Thou  thought  to  dwell. 

Till  crash  I  the  cruel  coulter  past 
30  Out  thro'  thy  cell. 


ROBERT  BURNS  221 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turned  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble  35 

An'  cranreuch  eauld  I 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,  40 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  ee  45 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  I 


To  a  Mountain  Daisy 

ON  TURNING   ONE    DOWN   WITH  THE    PLOUGH,    IN  APRIL,    1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippfed  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'f ,  .  6 

Thou  bonle  gem. 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonle  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet 

Wi'  spreckled  breast,  10 

When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


222  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 
15  Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield 
20  High  shelt'ring  woods  an'  wa's  maun  shield 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field 

Unseen,  alane. 

25  There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

30  And  low  thou  lies  I 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed 

And  guileless  trust ; 
35  Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 
On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
40  Of  prudent  lore. 

Till  billows  rage  and  gales  blow  hard. 
And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 


ROBERT  BURNS  *  223 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n  45 

To  misery's  brink ; 
Till,  wrenched  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He  ruined  sink ! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ;  50 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 


Tarn  O'  Shanter 


Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  buke. 

—  Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neibors  neibors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,  5 

An'  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter  : 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,  15 

For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 


224  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

O  Tarn !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

20  A  bletherin,  blusterin,  drunken  blellum ; 

That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober ; 
That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

25  That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  f  ou  on ; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  even  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon, 

30  Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon ; 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  AUoway's  auld  haimted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
35  How  mony  lengthened  sage  advices. 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  1 

But  to  our  tale  :  —  Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right. 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

40  Wi'  reamin  swats  that  drank  divinely; 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  cronie : 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

45  The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter ; 

And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better  : 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious 
.    Wi'  secret  favors,  sweet  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 

60  The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 


ROBERT  BURNS  225 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drowned  himsel  amang  the  nappy : 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasm-e,  55 

The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ;  60 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form  65 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide : 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride,  — 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane. 
That  dreary  hour  Tam  mounts  his  beast  in ;  70 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed ;  76 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed  : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg,  — 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  —  80 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet. 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares,  85 

Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 


226  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
90  Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored ; 

And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  CharUe  brak's  neck-bane ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  f and  the  murdered  bairn ; 
95  And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
100  Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze  : 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

105  Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  I 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  1 

Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi'  usquebae  we'll  face  the  devil ! 

The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's  noddle, 

110  Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished. 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  wow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

115  Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 

Nae  cotillion  brent-new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels  : 
A  winnock  bunker  in  the  east, 

120  There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast ; 

A  towsie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 
He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl. 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.  — 


ROBERT  BURNS  227 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,  125 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  airns ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  imchristened  bairns ; 

A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape  — 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted ;  135 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ;  140 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu'. 

Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glow'r'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  I  150 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam  1  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  fiannen. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  !  — 

But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie ;  155 

There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  wawlie. 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore  : 


228  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
160  An'  perished  mony  a  bonie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear. 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) ; 

Her  cutty  sark  o'  Paisley  ham, 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
165  In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty. 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 

Ah  I  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie, 
•  That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
170  Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches  I 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour. 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang,) 

176  And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitched. 

And  thought  his  very  een  enriched ; 
Even  Satan  glowered  and  fidged  fu'  fain, 
And  botched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

180  Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sarkl" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark  : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

186  As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop  I  she  starts  before  their  nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

190  When  "Catch  the  thief  1"  resounds  aloud ; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skriech  and  hollo. 


ROBERT  BURNS  229 

Ah,  Tarn  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou'U  get  thy  f  airin ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  !  195 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig : 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross.  200 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  I 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ;  205 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  sttunp.  210 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed. 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear,  215 

Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  Mare. 


Auld  Lang  Syne 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  auld  lang  syne  ? 

Chorus.  —  For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 
For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 


230  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 
10  And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ! 

And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 
And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine ; 
15  But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  fit 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidled  i'  the  burn, 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 
20  Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


"Willie  Brewed  a 'Peck  o'  Maut 

O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut, 
An'  Rob  an'  Allan  cam  to  see : 
Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 

5  Chorus.  —  We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou. 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  ee ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
10  Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we ; 

An'  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been, 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  1 


ROBERT  BURNS  231 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 

That's  bUnkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame,  15 

But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee  1 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa', 

A  cuckold,  coward  loim  is  he  ! 

Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three  I  20 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes. 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen,  5 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den. 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  sliunbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 

Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills ;  10 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below. 

Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 

There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the  lea,  15 

The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides. 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 

How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 

As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave.  20 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


232  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that  1 
6  For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  ^n'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
JO  Wear  hodden-gray,  an'  a'  that ; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
15  The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
20  He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
The  man  o'  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

25  A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that  I 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 
30  Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that. 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth. 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  233 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth,  35 

May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an*  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that.  40 

The  Banks  o'  Doon 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  1 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  weary  fu'  o'  care  ! 
Thou'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird,  6 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys. 

Departed  —  never  to  return. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ;  10 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve. 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose,  15 

But  ah  1  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

Wordsworth's  Object  in  His  Poetry 
{From  Preface  to  Lyrical  Ballads) 

The  first  volume  of  these  poems  has  already  been  submitted 
to  general  perusal.  It  was  published  as  an  experiment, 
which,  I  hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to  ascertain  how  far. 


234  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement  a  selection  of  the  real 
slanguage  of  men  in  a  state  of  vivid  sensation,  that  sort  of 
pleasure  and  that  quantity  of  pleasure  may  be  imparted, 
which  a  poet  may  rationally  endeavour  to  impart. 


The  principal  object,  then,  proposed  in  these  poems  was 
to  choose  incidents  and  situations  from  common  life,  and  to 

10  relate  or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far  as  was  possible, 
in  a  selection  of  language  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  to  throw  over  them  a  certain  coloring  of  imagina- 
tion, whereby  ordinary  things  should  be  presented  to  the 
mind  in  an  unusual  aspect;    and,  further,  and  above  all, 

15  to  make  these  incidents  and  situations  interesting  by  trac- 
ing in  them,  truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  the  primary 
laws  of  our  nature :  chiefly,  as  far  as  regards  the  manner  in 
which  we  associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement.  Humble 
and  rustic  life  was  generally  chosen,  because,  in  that  condi- 

20  tion,  the  essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a  better  soil  in 
which  they  can  attain  their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint, 
and  speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic  language;  because 
in  that  condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  co-exist  in 
a  state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  consequently,  may  be  more 

25  accurately  contemplated,  and  more  forcibly  communicated ; 
because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germinate  from  those  ele- 
mentary feelings;  and  from  the  necessary  character  of 
rural  occupations,  are  more  easily  comprehended,  and  are 
more  durable ;  and,  lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  pas- 

30sions  of  men  are  incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  per- 
manent forms  of  natur6.  The  language,  too,  of  these  men 
has  been  adopted  (purified  indeed  from  what  appear  to  be 
its  real  defects,  from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike 
or  disgust)  because  such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the 

35  best  objects  from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is  orig- 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  235 

inally  derived;    and  because,   from  their  rank  in  society 
and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse, 
being  less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity,  they  convey 
their  feelings  and  notions  in  simple  and  unelaborated  expres- 
sions.    Accordingly  such  a  language,  arising  out  of  repeated  40 
experience  and  regular  feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and  a 
far  more  philosophical  language,  than  that  which  is  frequently 
substituted  for  it  by  poets,  who  think  that  they  are  conferring 
honor  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in  proportion  as  they  sep- 
arate themselves  from  the  sympathies  of  men,  and  indulge  in  45 
arbitrary  and  capricious  habits  of  expression,  in  order  to  furnish 
food  for  fickle  tastes,  and  fickle  appetites,  of  their  own  creation. 
I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the  present  outcry 
against  the  triviality  and  meanness,  both  of  thought  and 
language,  which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have  occasionally  50 
introduced  into  their  metrical  compositions ;   and  I  acknowl- 
edge that  this  defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more  dishonorable 
to  the  writer's  own  character  than  false  refinement  or  arbi- 
trary innovation,  though  I  should  contend  at  the  same  time, 
that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in  the  sum  of  its  consequences.  55 
From  such  verses  the  poems  in  these  volumes  will  be  found 
distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark  of  difference,  that  each 
of  them  has  a  worthy  purpose.     Not  that  I  always  began  , 
to  write  with  a  distinct  purpose  formally  conceived;    but 
habits  of  meditation  have,  I  trust,  so  prompted  and  regu-60 
lated  my  feelings,  that  my  descriptions  of  such  objects  as 
strongly  excite  those  feelings,  will  be  found  to  carry  along 
with  them  a  purpose.     If  this  opinion  is  erroneous,  I  can 
have  little  right  to  the  name  of  a  poet.     For  all  good  poetry 
is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings :  and  though  65 
this  be  true,  poems  to  which  any  value  can  be  attached  were 
never  produced  on  any  variety  of  subjects  but  by  a  man, 
who,  being  possessed  of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility, 
had  also  thought  long  and  deeply. 


236  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Passages  Dealing  with  Poetry  in  General 

{From  the  Same) 

What  is  a  poet?  To  whom  does  he  address  himself? 
And  what  language  is  to  be  expected  from  him  ?  —  He  is  a 
man  speaking  to  men :  a  man,  it  is  true,  endowed  with  more 
lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness,  who  has 

6  a  greater  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  a  more  compre- 
hensive soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among  man- 
kind ;  a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and  volitions,  and 
who  rejoices  more  than  other  men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that 
is  in  him;    delighting  to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and 

10  passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings-on  of  the  universe,  and 
habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where  he  does  not  find  them. 


Poetry  is  the  image  of  man  and  nature. 


The  poet  writes  under  one  restriction  only,  namely,  the 

necessity  of  giving  immediate  pleasure  to  a  human  being 

15  possessed  of  that  information  which  may  be  expected  from 

him,  not  as  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer, 

or  a  natural  philosopher,  but  as  a  man. 


Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer   spirit  of  all   knowledge; 
it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the  countenance 
20  of  all  science. 


Poetry  is  the  first  and  last  of  all  knowledge  —  it  is  as 
immortal  as  the  heart  of  man. 


Poets  do  not  write  for  poets  alone,  but  for  men. 


An  accurate  taste  in  poetry  and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as 
25  Sir  Joshua  Reynolc^s  has  observed,   is  an  acquired  talent, 
which  can  only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a  long-continued 
intercourse  with  the  best  models  of  composition. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  237 

Ezposttilation  and  Reply 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 

"Where  are  your  books  ?  —  that  light  bequeathed  6 

To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind  I 

Up  I  up  !  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 

From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You  look  roimd  on  yoiu*  Mother  Earth, 

As  if  she  for  no  pm-pose  bore  you ;  10 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 

And  none  had  lived  before  you ! " 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake. 

When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 

To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake,  15 

And  thus  I  made  reply : 

"The  eye  —  it  cannot  choose  but  see ; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 

Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be. 

Against  or  with  oiu-  will.  20 

"Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  oiu-s 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum  ^  25 

Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 

" —  Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone. 

Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone. 

And  dream  my  time  away." 


238  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


The  Tables  Turned 

AN   EVENING    SCENE    ON   THE    SAME    SUBJECT 

Up  !  up  I  my  friend,  and  quit  yoiu"  books ; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

5  The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 
His  fia-st  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books  1  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
10  Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet. 

How  sweet  his  music  I  on  my  life 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings  ! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher  : 
15  Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 

Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth. 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless  — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
20  Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good. 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

25  Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ; 

Om*  meddling  intellect 

Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things  :  — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  239 

Enough  of  ScieHce  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves ;  30 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 

That  watches  and  receives. 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ;  5 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A  dancing  shap>e,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay.  10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free. 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet  15 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  natm-e's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles.  20 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,  25 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 


240  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
5  Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
,  And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
10  Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 
Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 
15  A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  : 
I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
20  In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior  ?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought ; 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  241 

Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 

That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 

Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 

What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn ; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there,  10 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care ; 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 

And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power  15 

Which  is  oiu"  human  natiu-e's  highest  dower ; 

Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves, 

Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives ; 

By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate ;  20 

Is  placable  —  because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  piu-e. 

As  tempted  more ;  more  able  to  endure. 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ;  25 

Thence,  also  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,  30 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest. 

He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows ; 

Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  conimand,  35 

Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim ;  40 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop>  nor  he  in  wait 

For  wealth  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state ; 


242  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

45  Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife. 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

50  Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a  lover ;   and  attired 
With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired ; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

55  Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : 
He  who  though  thus  endued  as  ^-ith  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 
Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

60  To  homef elt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ; 

Sweet  images  I  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love :  — 

65  'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye. 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity,  — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot. 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 

70  Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won : 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 

75  Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed  : 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall  to  sleep  without  his  fame. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  243 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name,  80 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause. 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior ;  this  is  he 

That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be.  85 


Influence  of  a  Mountain-peak 

(^From  The  Prelude,  Book  I) 

One  siunmer  evening  (led  by  her)  I  found 
A  little  boat  tied  to  a  willow  tree 

Within  a  rocky  cove,  its  usual  home.  .  • 

Straight  I  unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping  in 
Pushed  from  the  shore.     It  was  an  act  of  stealth  6 

And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on ; 
Leaving  behind  her  still,  on  either  side, 
Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon. 

Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track  10 

Of  sparkling  light.     But  now,  like  one  who  rows, 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a  chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I  fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a  craggj'  ridge, 

The  horizon's  utmost  boundary ;  far  above  15 

Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  gray  sky. 
:  She  was  an  elfin  pinnace ;  lustily 
I  dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake, 
And,  as  I  rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat 

Went  heaving  through  the  water  like  a  swan ;  20 

When,  from  behind  that  craggy  steep  till  then 
The  horizon's  bound,  a  huge  peak,  black  and  huge. 
As  if  wnth  voluntary  power  instinct 
Upreared  its  head.     I  struck  and  struck  again. 
And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape  25 

Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and  still 


244  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a  living  thing, 
Strode  after  me.     With  trembling  oars  I  turned, 

30  And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 

Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree ; 
There  in  her  mooring-place  I  left  my  bark,  — 
And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went,  in  grave 
And  serious  mood ;  but  after  I  had  seen 

35  That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 

Worked  with  a  dim  and  undetermined  sense 
Of  unknown  modes  of  being ;   o'er  my  thoughts 
There  hung  a  darkness,  call  it  solitude 
Or  blank  desertion.     No  familiar  shapes 

40  Remained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees, 

Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colors  of  green  fields ; 
But  huge  and  mighty  forms,  that  do  not  live 
Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the  mind 
By  day,  and  were  a  trouble  to  my  dreams. 


Composed  Upon  Westminster  Bridge,  Sept.  3,   1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;  silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will  : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  I 


10 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  245 


LfOndon,  1802 

Milton  1  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour : 

England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower  6 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea :  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way. 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowUest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


"Nuns  Fret  Not" 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 

And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells ; 

And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels ; 

Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  weaver  at  his  loom, 

Sit  blithe  and  happy ;  bees  that  soar  for  bloom,  5 

High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness-fells, 

Will  murmiu"  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells  : 

In  truth,  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 

Ourselves,  no  prison  is ;  and  hence  for  me. 

In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound  10 

Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground ; 

Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 

Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty. 

Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  foimd. 


246  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


"The  World  is  too  Much  with  Us" 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  I 
5  This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hom-s, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !     I'd  rather  be 
10  A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


"Scorn  not  the  Sonnet" 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frowned. 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours;  with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 
5  A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 

With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow :  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
10  It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and,  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet ;  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains  —  alas,  too  few ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  247 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE 

Chaucer 
{From  Table  Talk) 

I  take  unceasing  delight  in  Chaucer.  His  manly  cheer- 
fulness is  especially  delicious  to  me  in  my  old  age.  How 
exquisitely  tender  he  is,  and  yet  how  perfectly  free  from  the 
least  touch  of  sickly  melancholy  or  morbid  drooping !  The 
sympathy  of  the  poet  with  the  subjects  of  his  poetry  is  par-  5 
ticularly  remarkable  in  Shakspeare  and  Chaucer ;  but  what 
the  first  effects  by  a  strong  act  of  imagination  and  mental 
metamorphosis,  the  last  does  without  any  effort,  merely  by 
the  inborn  kindly  joyousness  of  his  nature.  How  well  we 
seem  to  know  Chaucer !  How  absolutely  nothing  do  we  know  10 
of  Shakspeare ! 


OtheUo 

{From  Table  Talk) 

Othello  must  not  be  conceived  as  a  negro,  but  a  high  and 
chivalrous  Moorish  chief.  Shakspeare  learned  the  spirit  of 
the  character  from  the  Spanish  poetry,  which  was  prevalent 
in  England  in  his  time.  Jealousy  does  not  strike  me  as  the 
point  in  his  passion ;  I  take  it  to  be  rather  an  agony  that  5 
the  creature  whom  he  had  believed  angelic,  with  whom  he 
had  garnered  up  his  heart,  and  whom  he  could  not  help  still 
loving,  should  be  proved  impure  and  worthless.  It  was  the 
struggle  not  to  love  her.  It  was  a  moral  indignation  and 
regret  that  virtue  should  so  fall :  —  "  But  yet  the  pity  of  it,  10 
lago !  —  O  lago  !  the  pity  of  it,  lago ! "  In  addition  to  this, 
his  honor  was  concerned :  lago  would  not  have  succeeded 
but  by  hinting  that  his  honor  was  compromised.  There  is 
no  ferocity  in  Othello;   his  mind  is  majestic  and  composed. 


248  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

15  He  deliberately  determines  to  die,  and  speaks  his  last  speech 
with  a  view  of  showing  his  attachment  to  the  Venetian  state, 
though  it  had  superseded  him. 

An  Observation  on  Patriotism 

{From  Table  Talk) 

The  free  class  in  a  slave  state  is  always,  in  one  sense,  the 
most  patriotic  class  of  people  in  an  empire ;  for  their 
patriotism  is  not  simply  the  patriotism  of  other  people,  but 
an  aggregate  of  lust  of  power,  and  distinction,  and  supremacy. 

On  Style 

{From  Lectures) 

In  order  to  form  a  good  style,  the  primary  rule  and  condi- 
tion is,  not  to  attempt  to  express  ourselves  in  language  before 
we  thoroughly  know  our  own  meaning :  when  a  man  per- 
fectly understands  himself,  appropriate  diction  will  generally 
5  be  at  his  command  either  in  writing  or  speaking.  In  such 
cases  the  thoughts  and  the  words  are  associated.  In  the 
next  place  preciseness  in  the  use  of  terms  is  required,  and 
the  test  is  whether  you  can  translate  the  phrase  adequately 
into  simpler  terms,  regard  being  had  to  the  feeling  of  the 

10  whole  passage.  Try  this  upon  Shakspeare  or  Milton,  and 
see  if  you  can  substitute  other  simpler  words  in  any  given 
passage  without  a  violation  of  the  meaning  or  tone.  The 
source  of  bad  writing  is  the  desire  to  be  something  more 
than  a  man  of  sense,  —  the  straining  to  be  thought  a  genius  ; 

15  and  it  is  just  the  same  in  speech-making.  If  men  would 
only  say  what  they  have  to  say  in  plain  terms,  how  much 
more  eloquent  they  would  be !  Another  rule  is  to  avoid  con- 
verting mere  abstractions  into  persons.  I  believe  you  will 
very  rarely  find,  in  any  great  writer  before  the  Revolution, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  249 

the  possessive  case  of  an  inanimate  noun  used  in  prose  in- 20 
stead  of  the  dependent  case ;    as  "  the  watch's  hand,"  for 
"the  hand  of  the  watch."     The  possessive  or  Saxon  genitive 
was  confined  to  persons,  or  at  least  to  animated  subjects. 

And  I  cannot  conclude  this  lecture  without  insisting  on  the 
importance  of  accuracy  of  style,  as  being  near  akin  to  veracity  25 
and  truthful  habits  of  mind.  He  who  thinks  loosely  will 
write  loosely;  and,  perhaps,  there  is  some  moral  incon- 
venience in  the  common  forms  of  our  grammars,  which  give 
our  children  so  many  obscure  terms  for  material  distinctions. 
Let  me  also  exhort  you  to  careful  examination  of  what  you  30 
read,  if  it  be  worth  any  perusal  at  all :  such  an  examination 
will  be  a  safeguard  from  fanaticism,  the  universal  origin  of 
which  is  in  the  contemplation  of  phenomena  without  investi- 
gation into  their  causes. 


Kubla  Khan :  or,  a  Vision  in  a  Dream 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea.  5 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 

And  there  were  gardens  bright  wnth  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  10 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 

A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted  15 


250  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething. 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 

20  Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

25  Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  timault  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

30  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 
Where  v/as  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
35  It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  I 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
40  And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
45  That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome  I  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there,  — 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !     Beware  !  — 
50  His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON  251 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


GEORGE  NOEL   GORDON,   LORD   BYRON 
Lachin  y  Gair 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses  I 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snowflake  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love : 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains,  5 

Round  their  white  simmiits  though  elements  war ; 
Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smooth-flowing  fountains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah  I  there  my  yoimg  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd ; 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ;  10 

On  chieftains  long  perished  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade ; 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 
For  fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story,  15 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"Shades  of  the  dead  !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices. 

And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  o^^ti  Highland  vale.  20 

Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  wind  gathers. 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car ; 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers ; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

"Ill-starr'd,  though  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding  25 

Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your  cause?" 


252  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Ah  1  were  you  destined  to  die  at  CuUoden, 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause : 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthly  slumber, 
30  You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar ; 

The  pibroch  resoimds,  to  the  piper's  loud  number. 
Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Years  have  roll'd  on.  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you. 
Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again : 
35         Nature  of  verdure  and  flow'rs  has  bereft  you. 
Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain. 
England  !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

To  one  who  has  roamed  o'er  the  mountains  afar : 
Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic ! 
40  The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 


Wordsworth 

(From  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers) 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school. 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May, 
5  Who  warns  his  friend  "to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble. 

And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double"; 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose; 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 

10  Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 

And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  esseiice  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "an  idiot  Boy  ", 

15  A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way. 

And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day ; 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON   253 

So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells. 

And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 

That  all  who  view  the  "idiot  in  his  glory" 

Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story.  20 


The  Bull-Fight 

{From  Clulde  Harold,  Canto  I) 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round ; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard. 
No  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found  : 

Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound,  6 

Skill'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die. 
As  moonstruck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  archery. 

Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues  —  on  gallant  steeds,  10 

With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised  lance. 
Four  cavaUers  prepare  for  ventvu-ous  deeds. 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance : 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day,  16 

The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance. 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 

But  all  afoot,  the  light-limb'd  Matadore  20 

Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er. 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed  : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more  25 

Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed  — 
Alas !  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 


254  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion ;  lo !  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 

30         Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 

Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute. 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot. 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 

35         His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 

His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

Sudden  he  stops ;  his  eye  is  fixed  :  away. 

Away,  thou  heedless  boy  !  prepare  the  spear : 

Now  is  thy  time  to  perish,  or  display 
40         The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 

With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer ; 

On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes ; 

Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear ; 

He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
45     Dart  follows  dart ;  lance,  lance ;  loud  bellowings  speak  his  woes. 

Again  he  comes ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail. 
Nor  the  wild  plxmging  of  the  tortured  horse ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
50         One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !  unseam'd  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source ; 
Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he  bears. 

55         Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  fiu-ious  to  the  last. 

Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 

'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 

And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray ; 

And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
60         Shake  the  red  cloak  and  poise  the  ready  brand  : 

Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way  — 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON   255 

Vain  rage  1  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye  —  'tis  past  —  he  sinks  upon  the  sand  1 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine. 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies.  65 

He  stops  —  he  starts  —  disdaining  to  decline : 
Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries, 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle,  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears  —  on  high 

The  corse  is  piled  —  sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes  —  70 

Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 

The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 

Waterloo 

{From  Childe  Harold,  Canto  III) 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night. 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when  5 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No ;  'twas  but  the  wind,  10 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy  be  unconfined ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet.  — 
But  hark  !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more,  15 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  arm !  it  is !  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 


256  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 

20     Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear, 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 

25     Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell. 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 

30     And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  could  guess 

35     If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise ! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed. 

The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 

Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
40     And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 

Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 

While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
45  Or  whispering  with  white  lips  — "The  foe  !  They  come !  they  come ! " 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron's  Gathering"  rose. 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes ; 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
50     Savage  and  shrill !     But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 


GEORGE  NOEL  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON   257 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves,  55 

Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass. 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  movdder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay,  65 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife. 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms  —  the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  I 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay,  70 

Which  her  o^vn  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent ! 


To  Thomas  Moore 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee ! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me,  5 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate ; 
And,  whatever  sky's  above  me. 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me. 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ;  10 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 


258  ENGLISH  LITER^^TURE 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
15  Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  peace  with  thine  and  mine, 
20  And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 


Stanzas 

When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at  home, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbours ; 

Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock'd  on  the  head  for  his  labours. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan. 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited ; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  whenever  you  can,     , 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hang'd,  you'll  get  knighted. 


Epigram 

The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay. 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 

Each  tugs  it  a  different  way. 

And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


On  my  Thirty-third  Birthday,   January  22,  1821 

Through  life's  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 
I  have  dragg'd  to  three-and-thirty. 
What  have  these  years  left  to  me  ? 
Nothing  —  except  thirty-three. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  259 

Stanzas  from  "Don  Juan'' 

But  let  me  to  my  story  :  I  must  own, 

If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression  — 
Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone. 

While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression ; 
But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne,  6 

Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing  session. 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 

In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end ;  10 

For  oftentimes,  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 

The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tend. 
Like  Lucifer,  when  hurled  from  heaven  for  sinning ; 

Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend. 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far,  15 

Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are. 

Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 

Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land. 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  : 

I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand  20 

My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine ; 

But  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  nothing  planned 
Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind 


O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autimin's  being. 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 


260  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
5  Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou, 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  aziu-e  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

10  Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  oh  hear ! 


15  Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

'Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
20  Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
25  Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulclu-e. 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  oh  hear  1 

III 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
30  The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay. 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  261 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day. 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers  35 

,  So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !    Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  oh  hear ! 

rv 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share  46 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed  60 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision ;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh !  litt  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !     I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  s^\•ift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 


262  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

60  Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit  I    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
65  And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trimipet  of  a  prophecy !    O  wind, 
70  If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 


The  Cloud 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
5  From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 
10  And  whiten  the  green  plains  under. 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
15  And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder,  — 
20  .    It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  263 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills ;  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  simrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  36 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath. 

It  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbfed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden,  46 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glinunering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  imseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  60 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  linden  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 


264  ENGLISH  LITERATlJRE 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 
Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 
60  And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 
Over  a  torrent  sea, 
65  Simbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  tlu-ough  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 
70  Is  the  million-colored  bow ; 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky ; 
75  I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 
80  Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

To  a  Skylark 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  I 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
5  In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  265 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest.  10 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning. 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun.  16 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight,  20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawTi  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there.  25 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed.  30 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody.  35 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 


266  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
40         To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
45         With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
60         Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
55         Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Soimd  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 

All  that  ever  was 
60         Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 

I  have  never  heard  ^ 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
65         That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine : 

Chorus  Hymenseal, 

Or  triumphal  chant. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
70         A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  267 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ?  75 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ?  85 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Oiu"  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought.  90 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  I  100 


268  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
105         The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


JOHN   KEATS 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
6  Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
10  When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 

The  Poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 
5  That  is  the  Grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never ; 
10  On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 


JOHN  KEATS  269 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever. 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 


Ode  on  a  Grecian  Um 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time. 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape  5 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 

What  mad  pm-suit  ?    What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?    What  wild  ecstasy  ?  10 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave  15 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair !  20 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu : 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new ; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love  1  25 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 


270  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
30  A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed  ? 
35  What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
40  Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !     Fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  over-wrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
45  As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is  all 
50  Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 


JOHN  KEATS  271 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ;  10 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  piu-gatorial  rails  :  15 

Knights,  ladies,  prajnng  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 

And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue  20 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no  —  already  had  his  deathbell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft,  30 

The  silver,  snarling  trimapets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 

Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new  stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triimaphs  gay  40 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away. 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 

Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day. 


272  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
45  As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
50      If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright : 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire. 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

55      Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine. 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 

60     Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 

And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
65      Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 

The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand  :  she  sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 

Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 

'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
70      Hoodwinked  with  faery  fancy ;  all  amort. 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
75      Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 


JOHN  KEATS  273 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 

That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ;  80 

Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 

For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes,  85 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul.  90 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came. 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  :  95 

He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "Mercy,  Porphyro  I  hie  thee  from  this  place; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty  race ! 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand ;  100 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  —  "Ah,  Gossip  dear,  105 

We're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  armchair  sit. 
And  tell  me  how"  —  "Good  Saints  !  not  here,  not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ;  110 


274  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a-day ! " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
115      "O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

"St.  Agnes !  Ah  I  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 

Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
120     Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 

To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 

To  see  thee,  Porphyro !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 

God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
125     This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  I 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  m-chin  on  an  aged  crone 

130     Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle-book. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 

135  And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose. 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
140     "A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go !  —  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 


JOHN  KEATS  275 

*'I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear,"  145 

Quoth  Porphyro :  "O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruflSan  passion  in  her  face : 

Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ;  150 

Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  morefanged  than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing,  —  155 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  missed."  —  Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 

So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing,  160 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 

Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met,  170 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame  : 

"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 

Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 

Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare,  175 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 

On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 

Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 


276  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  while.     Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
180  Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed ; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
185     From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed,  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

190     Her  f  alt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 

When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 

Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware : 

With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
195     She  tiu-ned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 

To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare. 

Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  frayed  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
200     Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  I 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
205     Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
210     Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 


JOHN  KEATS  277 

As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 

And  twihght  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings,  215 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  pressed,  220 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  dressed. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint.  225 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees :  230 

Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest,  235 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 

Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain ;  240 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 

Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress,  245 

And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 

To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 


278  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself  :  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
250     Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 

And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stepped, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo  1  —  how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
255     A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
260     Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :  — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered. 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
265     Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 

And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 

From  Fez ;  and  spicfed  dainties,  every  one, 
270  From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
275      Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

280     Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 


JOHN  KEATS  279 

By  the  dusk  curtains :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  ic^d  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 

Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carj>et  lies :  285 

It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  wooffed  phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 

Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be,  290 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  called,  "La  belle  dame  sans  merci," 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ;  — 
Wherewith  distm-bed  she  uttered  a  soft  moan : 

He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly  295 

Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 

There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled  300 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  ta  weep. 
And  moan  forth  Tvitless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 

Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye,  305 

Fearing  to  move  or  sp>eak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

"Ah,  PorphjTo!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear. 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear :  310 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe. 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go."  315 


280  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
320     Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

325      'Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline !" 
'Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"No  dream,  alas !  alas  1  and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 

330     Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  f orsakest  a  deceived  thing ;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely  bride ! 
335     Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed  ? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
340     Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"Hark !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
345     Arise  —  arise !  the  morning  is  at  hand ;  — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  :  — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 


JOHN  KEATS  281 

Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be,  350 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears. 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears  — 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found.  —  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-dropped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound. 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor.  360 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ;  — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm. 

Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old  375 

Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


282  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

CHARLES   LAMB 

A  Dissertation  upon  Roast  I*ig 
{From  Essays  of  Elia) 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend  M. 
was  obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first 
seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting 
it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this 
5  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted  at  by  their  great 
Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of  his  Mundane  Mutations, 
where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho- 
tajig,  literally  the  Cook's  Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes 
on  to  say,  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which 

10 1  take  to  be  the  elder  brother)  was  accidentally  discovered 
in  the  manner  following. 

The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the  woods 
one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his 
hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son  Bo-bo,  a 

15  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as 
younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some  sparks  escape 
into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which  kindling  quickly,  spread  the 
conflagration  over  every  part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it 
was  reduced  to  ashes.     Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry 

20  antediluvian  make-shift  of  a  building,  you  may-  think  it), 
what  was  of  much  more  importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new- 
farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China 
pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East  from 
the  remotest  periods  that  we  read  of.      Bo-bo  was   in   the 

25  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think,  not  so  much  for 

the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  could 

easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labor 

of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs. 

While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father, 

30  and  wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one 


CHARLES  LAMB  283 

of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nostrils, 
unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  experienced.  What 
could  it  proceed  from  ?  —  not  from  the  burnt  cottage  —  he 
had  smelt  that  smell  before  —  indeed  this  was  by  no  means 
the  first  accident  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  35 
negligence  of  this  luilucky  young  fire-brand.  Much  less  did 
it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower.  A 
premonitory  moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed  his 
nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He  40 
burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his 
booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the 
scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before  him  no 
man  had  known  it)  he  tasted  —  crackling !  Again  he  felt  45 
and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now, 
still  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at 
length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it  was  the 
pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious ;  and, 
surrendering  himself  up  to  the  newborn  pleasure,  he  fell  to  50 
tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh 
next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly 
fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters, 
armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  affairs  stood, 
began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders,  as  55 
thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more  than 
if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which  he 
experienced  in  his  lower  regions,  had  rendered  him  quite 
callous  to  any  inconveniences  he  might  feel  in  those  remote 
quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat  60 
him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when, 
becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something 
like  the  following  dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devour- 


284  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

65  ing  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three 
houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you,  but 
you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what  —  what  have 
you  got  there,  I  say  ?  " 

"O,  father,  the  pig,  the  pig,  do  come  and  taste  how  nice 

70  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his  son, 
and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that 
should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,    whose    scent    was    wonderfully    sharpened    since 

75  morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it 
asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of 
Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out  "  Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father, 
only  taste  —  O  Lord,"  —  with  such-like  barbarous  ejacula- 
tions, cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

80  Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abomi- 
nable thing,,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to 
death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when  the  crackling 
scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and  applying 
the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted  some  of  its 

85  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a  pre- 
tence, proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.  In  conclu- 
sion (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father 
and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till 
they  had  despatched  all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

90  Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape, 
for  the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a 
couple  of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving 
upon  the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them.  Neverthe- 
less, strange  stories  got  about.     It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's 

95  cottage  was  burnt  down  now  more  frequently  than  ever. 
Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some  would 
break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often 
as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in 


CHARLES  LAMB  285 

a  blaze ;   and  Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable, 
instead  of  chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  lOO 
to  him  than  ever.     At  length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible 
mystery  discovered,  and  father  and  son  summoned  to  take 
their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable  assize  town. 

Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in 
court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  105 
of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which  the 
culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He 
handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it,  and  burning  their  fingers, 
as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature 
prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against  the  face  HO 
of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever 
given,  —  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk, 
strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present  —  without  leaving  the 
box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  brought 
in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty.  115 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the  mani- 
fest iniquity  of  the  decision ;  and,  when  the  court  was  dis- 
missed, went  privily,  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could 
be  had  for  love  or  money.  In  a  few  days  his  Lordship's 
town  house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  120 
and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  fires  in  every  direc- 
tion. Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the 
district.  The  insurance  offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop. 
People  built  slighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was 
feared  that  the  very  science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  125 
time  be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses 
continued,  till  in  process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a 
sage  arose,  like  our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery,  that  the 
flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked 
(burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  consuming  130 
a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  rude  form  of 
a  gridiron.     Roasting  by  the  string,  or  spit,  came  in  a  century 


286  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

or  two  later,   I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.     By  such  slow 
degrees,  concludes  the  'manuscript,  do  the  most  useful,  and 

135  seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts,  make  their  way  among 
mankind.  — 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account  above 
given,  it  must  be  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so 
dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially 

140  in  these  days)  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary 

object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be  found  in  roast  pig. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edibilis,  I  will 

maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate  —  princeps  obsoniorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers  —  things  between  pig 

145  and  pork  —  those  hobby dehoys  —  but  a  young  and  tender 
suckling  —  under  a  moon  old  —  guiltless  as  yet  of  the  sty 
—  with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor  immunditice,  the  hered- 
itary failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest  —  his  voice  as 
yet  not  broken,  but  something  between  a  childish  treble  and 

150  a  grumble  —  the  mild  forerunner,  or  prceludium,  of  a  grunt. 
He  must  be  roasted.     I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  ancestors 
ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled  —  but  what  a  sacrifice  of  the 
exterior  tegument! 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that  of 

155  the  crisp,  tawny,  well-watched,  not  over-roasted,  crackling, 
as  it  is  well  called  —  the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their  share 
of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy, 
brittle  resistance  —  with  the  adhesive  oleaginous  —  O  call 
it  not  fat  —  but  an  indefinable  sweetness  growing  up  to  it 

160  —  the  tender  blossoming  of  fat  —  fat  cropped  in  the  bud  — 
taken  in  the  shoot  —  in  the  first  innocence  —  the  cream  and 
quintessence  of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure  food  —  the  lean,  no 
lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  manna  —  or,  rather,  fat  and  lean 
(if  it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and  running  into  each  other, 

165  that  both  together  make  but  one  ambrosian  result,  or  com- 
mon substance. 


CHARLES  LAMB  287 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  doing  —  it  seemeth  rather  a  re- 
freshing warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so  passive 
to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string !  —  Now  he 
is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of  that  tender  170 
age,  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes  —  radiant  jellies  — 
shooting  stars  — 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek  he  lieth ! 
—  wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to  the 
grossness  and  indocility  which  too  often  accompany  maturer  175 
swinehood  ?  Ten  to  one  he  would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a 
sloven,  an  obstinate,  disagreeable  animal  —  wallowing  in  all 
manner  of  filthy  conversation  —  from  these  sins  he  is  happily 
snatched  away  — 

"  Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade,  180 

Death  came  with  timely  care  "  — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous  —  no  clown  curseth,  while  his 
stomach   half  rejecteth,    the   rank  bacon  —  no   coalheaver 
bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages  —  he  hath  a  fair  sepulchre 
in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure  —  and  for  185 
such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 

He  is  the  best  of  Sapors.     Pine-apple  is  great.     She  is 
indeed  almost  too  transcendent  —  a  delight,  if  not  sinful, 
yet  so  like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender-conscienced  person 
would  do  well  to  pause  —  too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste,  she  190 
woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that  approach  her  —  like 
lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth  —  she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on    • 
pain  from  the  fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish  —  but 
she  stoppeth  at  the  palate  —  she  meddleth  not  with  the    , 
appetite  —  and  the  coarsest  hunger  might  barter  her  con- 195 
sistently  for  a  mutton  chop. 

Big  —  let  me  speak  his  praise  —  is  no  less  provocative  of 
the  appetite,  than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness  of  the 


288  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

censorious  palate.     The  strong  man  may  batten  on  him, 

200  and  the  weakling  refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a  bundle  of  virtues 
and  vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  unravelled 
without  hazard,  he  is  —  good  tliroughout.  No  part  of  him 
is  better  or  worse  than  another.     He  helpeth,  as  far  as  his 

205  little  means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the  least  envious  of 
banquets.     He  is  all  neighbors'  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those,  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart  a 
share  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their  lot 
(few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a  friend.     I  protest  I  take 

210  as  great  an  interest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and 
proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine  own.  "Presents,"  I  often 
say,  "endear  Absents."  Hares,  pheasants,  partridges, 
snipes,  barn-door  chickens  (those  "tame  villatic  fowl"), 
capons,   plovers,   brawn,   barrels  of  oysters,   I   dispense  as 

215  freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a  stop  must  be  put  some- 
where. One  would  not,  like  Lear,  "give  everything."  I 
make  my  stand  upon  pig.  Methinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to 
the  Giver  of  all  good  flavors,  to  extra-domiciliate,  or  send  out 

220  of  the  house,  slightingly  (under  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I 
know  not  what)  a  blessing  so  particularly  adapted,  pre- 
destined, I  may  say,  to  my  individual  palate  —  it  argues  an 
insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at  school. 

225  My  good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end  of 
•   a  holiday  without  stuffing  a  sweetmeat,  or  some  nice  thing, 
into  my  pocket,  had  dismissed  me  one  evening  with  a  smok- 
ing plum-cake,  fresh  from  the  oven.     In  my  way  to  school 
(it  was  over  London  Bridge)  a  gray-headed  old  beggar  saluted 

230  me  (I  have  no  doubt  at  this  time  of  day  that  he  was  a  coun- 
terfeit). I  had  no  pence  to  console  him  with,  and  in  the 
vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  coxcombry  of  charity. 


CHARLES  LAMB  289 

school-boy-like,  I  made  him  a  present  of  —  the  whole  cake ! 
I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions, 
with  a  sweet  soothing  of  self-satisfaction ;   but  before  I  had  235 
got  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  my  better  feelings  returned, 
and  I  burst  into  tears,  thinking  how  ungrateful  I  had  been 
to  my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good  gift  away  to  a 
stranger,  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  who  might  be  a 
bad  man  for  aught  I  knew ;  and  then  I  thought  of  the  pleas-  240 
ure  my  aunt  would  be  taking  in  thinking  that  I  —  I  myself, 
and  not  another  —  would  eat  Her  nice  cake  —  and  what 
should  I  say  to  her  the  next  time  I  saw  her  —  how  naughty 
I  was  to  part  with  her  pretty  present  —  and  the  odor  of  that 
spicy  cake  came  back  upon  my  recollection,  and  the  pleasure  245 
and  the  curiosity  I  had  taken  in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her 
joy  when  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how  disappointed  she 
would  feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth  at 
last  —  and  I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit  of  alms-giving, 
and  out-of-place  hypocrisy  of  goodness,   and  above  all   1 250 
wished  never  to  see  the  face  again  of  that  insidious,  good-for- 
nothing,  old  gray  impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  method  of  sacrificing 
these  tender  victims.  We  read  of  pigs  whipped  to  death 
with  something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of  any  other  obsolete  255 
custom.  The  age  of  discipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be 
curious  to  inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light  merely)  what 
effect  this  process  might  have  toward  intenerating  and  dul- 
cifying a  substance,  naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the 
flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  refining  a  violet.  Yet  we  260 
should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn  the  inhumanity,  how 
we  censure  the  wisdom  of  the  practice.  It  might  impart  a 
gusto  — 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by  the  young 
students,  when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with  265 
much  learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides,  "  Whether,  sup- 


290  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

posing  that  the  flavor  of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by 
whipping  {per  flagellationem  extremam)  superadded  a  pleasure 
upon  the  palate  of  a  man  more  intense  than  any  possible 

270  suffering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal,  is  man  justified  in 
using  that  method  of  putting  the  animal  to  death?"  I  for- 
get the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.     Decidedly,  a  few  bread 
crumbs,*  done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash  of 

275  mild  sage.  But,  banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the 
whole  onion  tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to  your  palate, 
steep  them  in  shalots,  stuff  them  out  with  plantations  of  the 
rank  and  guilty  garlic;  you  cannot  poison  them,  or  make 
them  stronger  than  they  are  —  but  consider,  he  is  a  weakling 

280  —  a  flower. 

Dteam- Children ;  A  Reverie 

(From  Essays  of  Elia) 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders,  when 
they  were  children ;  to  stretch  their  imagination  to  the  con- 
ception of  a  traditionary  great-uncle  or  grandame,  whom  they 
never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept 
5  about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their  great-grand- 
mother Field,  who  lived  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hun- 
dred times  bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived) 
which  had  been  the  scene  —  so  at  least  it  was  generally  be- 
lieved in  that  part  of  the  country  —  of  the  tragic  incidents 

10  which  they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad 
of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is  that  the  whole 
story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen 
fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great 
hall,  the  whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Redbreasts,  till  a 

15  foolish  rich  person  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble  one  of 
modern  invention  in  its  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it. 


CHARLES  LAMB  291 

Here  Alice  put  out  one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  ten- 
der to  be  called  upbraiding.     Then  I  went  on  to  say,  how 
religious  and  how  good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was, 
how  beloved  and  respected  by  every  body,  though  she  was  20 
not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had  only  the    . 
charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  respects  she  might  be  said  to 
be  the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner, 
who  preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable  man- 
sion which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoining  25 
county ;    but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been 
her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort 
while  she  lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was 
nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and 
carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they  were  30 
set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to  carry 
away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and 
stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt  drawing-room.     Here 
John  smiled,   as  much  as  to  say,  "that  would  be  foolish 
indeed."  35 

And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was 
attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the 
gentry  too,  of  the  neighborhood  for  many  miles  round,  to 
show  their  respect  for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been 
such  a  good  and  religious  woman :  so  good  indeed  that  she  40 
knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the 
Testament  besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands. 
Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  once  was ;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was 
esteemed  the  best  dancer  —  here  Alice's  little  right  foot  46 
played  an  involuntary  movement,  till  upon  my  looking  grave, 
it  desisted  —  the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in  the  county, 
till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her 
down  with  pain;  but  it  could  never  bend  her  good  spirits, 
or  make  them  stoop,  but  they  were   still  upright,  because  50 


292  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I  told  how  she  was 
used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  chamber  of  the  great  lone 
house;  and  how  she  believed  that  an  apparition  of  two 
infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down 

65  the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept,  but  she  said  "  those 
innocents  would  do  her  no  harm;"  and  how  frightened  I 
used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep 
with  me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  religious  as  she 
—  and  yet  I  never  saw  the  infants.     Here  John  expanded  all 

60  his  eyebrows  and  tried  to  look  courageous. 

Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grand-children, 
having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  par- 
ticular used  to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon 
the  old  busts  of  the  Twelve  Csesars,  that  had  been  Emperors 

65  of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again, 
or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them ;  how  I  never  could 
be  tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast 
empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  tapes- 
try, and  carved  oaken  panels,  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed 

70  out  —  sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens,  which 
I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a  solitary 
gardening  man  would  cross  me  —  and  how  the  nectarines 
and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering 
to  pluck  them,  because  they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now 

75  and  then,  —  and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling 
about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew  trees,  or  the 
firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir  apples,  which 
were  good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at  —  or  in  lying  about  upon 
the  fresh  grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me  — 

80  or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself 
ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that 
grateful  warmth  —  or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to 
and  fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with 
here  and  there  a  great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the 


CHLIRLES  LAMB  293 

water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  85 
friskings,  —  I  had  more  pleasm*e  in  these  busy-idle  diversions 
than  in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges, 
and  such  like  common  baits  of  children.  Here  John  slily 
deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not 
unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  90 
and  both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the  present 
as  irrelevant. 

Then  in  somewhat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how, 
though  their  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grand- 
children, yet  in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be  said  to  95 

love  their  uncle,  John  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome 

and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us ;  and,  in- 
stead of  moping  about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us, 
he  would  mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get, 
when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make  it  lOO 
carry  him  half  over  the  county  in  a  morning,  and  join  the 
hunters  when  there  were  any  out  —  and  yet  he  loved,  the 
old  great  house  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to 
be  always  pent  up  within  their  boundaries  —  and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  io5 
to  the  admiration  of  everybody,  but  of  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  most  especially ;  and  how  he  used  to  carry  me 
upon  his  back  when  I  was  a  lame-footed  boy  —  for  he  was  a 
good  bit  older  than  me  —  many  a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk 
for  pain ;  —  and  how  in  after  life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  no 
and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make  allowances  enough  for 
him  when  he  was  impatient,  and  in  pain,  nor  remember 
sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was 
lame-footed;  and  how  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not 
been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while  115 
ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death ;  and  how 
I  bore  his  death  as  I  thought  pretty  well  at  first,  but  after- 
wards it  haunted  and  haunted  me ;  and  though  I  did  not  cry 


294  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  have 

120  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew 
not  till  then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his  kind- 
ness, and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be  alive 
again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  we  quarrelled  some- 
times), rather  than  not  have  him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy 

125  without  him,  as  he  their  poor  uncle  must  have  been  when 
the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here  the  children  fell  a-crying, 
and  asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not 
for  uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not  to 
go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories  about 

130  their  pretty  dead  mother. 

Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes, 
sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I  courted  the  fair 

Alice  W n ;   and,  as  much  as  children  could  understand, 

I  explained  to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial 

135  meant  in  maidens  —  when  suddenly,  turning  to  Alice,  the 
soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such 
a  reality  of  re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which 
of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair 
was;   and  while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually 

140  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  receding  till 
nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in  the 
uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely  im- 
pressed upon  me  the  effects  of  speech ;  "  We  are  not  of  Alice, 
nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.      The    children  of 

145  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing ;  less  than  noth- 
ing, and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have  been, 
and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions 
of  ages  before  we  have  existence,  and  a  name"  —  and  im- 
mediately  awaking,   I  found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my 

150  bachelor  armchair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful 
Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side  —  but  John  L.  (or  James 
Elia)  was  gone  for  ever. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  295 

THOMAS   DE    QUINCEY 

A  Meeting  with  Lamb 
(From  London  Reminiscences) 

I  was  to  come  so  early  as  to  drink  tea  with  Lamb ;  and  the 
hour,  was  seven.  He  lived  in  the  Temple ;  and  I,  who  was 
not  then,  as  afterwards  I  became,  a  student  and  member  of 
"the  Honourable  Society  of  the  Middle  Temple,"  did  not 
know  much  of  the  localities.  However,  I  found  out  his  abode,  5 
not  greatly  beyond  my  time:  nobody  had  been  asked  to 
meet  me,  —  which  a  little  surprised  me,  but  I  was  glad  of 
it :  for,  besides  Lamb,  there  was  present  his  sister.  Miss 
Lamb,  of  whom,  and  whose  talents  and  sweetness  of  dis- 
position, I  had  heard.  I  turned  the  conversation,  upon  the  10 
first  opening  which  offered,  to  the  subject  of  Coleridge ;  and 
many  of  my  questions  were  answered  satisfactorily,  because 
seriously,  by  Miss  Lamb.  But  Lamb  took  a  pleasure  in 
baffling  me,  or  in  throwing  ridicule  upon  the  subject. 

Out  of  this  grew  the  matter  of  our  affray.  We  were  speak- 15 
ing  of  "The  Ancient  Mariner."  Now,  to  explain  what  fol- 
lowed, and  a  little  to  excuse  myself,  I  must  beg  the  reader  to 
understand  that  I  was  under  twenty  years  of  age,  and  that 
my  admiration  for  Coleridge  (as,  in  perhaps  a  still  greater 
degree,  for  Wordsworth)  was  literally  in  no  respect  short  of  a  20 
religious  feeling :  it  had,  indeed,  all  the  sanctity  of  religion, 
and  all  the  tenderness  of  a  human  veneration.  Then,  also, 
to  imagine  the  strength  which  it  would  derive  from  circum- 
stances that  do  not  exist  now,  but  did  then,  let  the  reader 
further  suppose  a  case  —  not  such  as  he  may  have  known  25 
since  that  era  about  Sir  Walter  Scotts  and  Lord  Byrons, 
where  every  man  you  could  possibly  fall  foul  of,  early  or  late, 
night  or  day,  summer  or  winter,  was  in  perfect  readiness  to 
feel  and  express  his  sympathy  with  the  admirer  —  but  when 
no  man,  beyond  one  or  two  in  each  ten  thousand,  had  so  30 


296  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

much  as  heard  of  either  Coleridge  or  Wordsworth,  and  that 
one,  or  those  two,  knew  them  only  to  scorn  them,  trample 
on  them,  spit  upon  them.  Men  so  abject  in  public  estima- 
tion, I  maintain,  as  that  Coleridge  and  that  Wordsworth, 

35  had  not  existed  before,  have  not  existed  since,  will  not  exist 
again. 

We  have  heard  in  old  times  of  donkeys  insulting  effete  or 
dying  lions  by  kicking  them ;    but  in  the  case  of  Coleridge . 
and  Wordsworth    it  was  effete  donkeys  that  kicked  living 

40  lions.     They,  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  were  the  Pariahs 

of  literature  in  those  days  :   as  much  scorned  wherever  they 

were  known ;    but  escaping  that  scorn  only  because  they 

were  as  little  known  as  Pariahs,  and  even  more  obscure. 

Well,  after  this  bravura,  by  way  of  conveying  my  sense 

45  of  the  real  position  then  occupied  by  these  two  authors  —  a 
position  which  thirty  and  odd  years  have  altered,  by  a  revo- 
lution more  astonishing  and  total  than  ever  before  happened 
in  literature  or  in  life  —  let  the  reader  figure  to  himself  the 
sensitive  horror  with  which  a  young  person,   carrying  his 

60  devotion  about  with  him,  of  necessity,  as  the  profoundest 

of  secrets,  like  a  primitive  Christian  amongst  a  nation  of 

Pagans,  or  a  Roman  Catholic  convert  amongst  the  bloody 

,  idolaters   of   Japan  —  in  Oxford,  above    all   places,   hoping 

for  no  sympathy,  and  feeling  a  daily  grief,  almost  a  shame, 

55  in  harboring  this  devotion  to  that  which,  nevertheless,  had 
done  more  for  the  expansion  and  sustenance  of  his  own 
inner  mind  than  all  literature  besides  —  let  the  reader  figure, 
I  say,  to  himself,  the  shock  with  which  such  a  person  must 
recoil  from  hearing  the  very  friend  and  associate  of  these 

60  authors  utter  what  seemed  at  that  time  a  burning  ridicule  of 
all  which  belonged  to  them  —  their  books,  their  thoughts, 
their  places,  their  persons.  This  had  gone  on  for  some  time 
before  we  came  upon  the  ground  of  "The  Ancient  Mariner"  ; 
I  had  been  grieved,   perplexed,    astonished ;    and  how  else 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  297 

could  I  have  felt  reasonably,  knowing  of  Lamb's  propensity  65 
to  mystify  a  stranger;  he,  on  the  other  hand,  knowing 
nothing  of  the  depth  of  my  feelings  on  these  subjects,  and 
that  they  were  not  so  much  mere  literary  preferences  as 
something  that  went  deeper  than  life  or  household  affec- 
tions? 70 

At  length,  when  he  had  given  utterance  to  some  ferocious 
canon  of  judgment,  which  seemed  to  question  the  entire 
value  of  the  poem,  I  said,  perspiring  (I  dare  say)  in  this 
detestable  crisis^  "But,  Mr.  Lamb,  good  heavens  I  how  is 
it  possible  you  can  allow  yourself  in  such  opinions?  What 75 
instance  could  you  bring  from  the  poem  that  would  bear 
you  out  in  these  insinuations?"  "Instances?"  said  Lamb: 
"oh,  I'll  instance  you,  if  you  come  to  that.  Instance,  in- 
deed !     Pray,  what  do  you  say  to  this  — 

'The  many  men  so  beautiful,  .    80 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie'  ? 

So  beautiful,  indeed !  Beautiful !  Just  think  of  such  a  gang 
of  Wapping  vagabonds,  all  covered  with  pitch,  and  chewing 
tobacco ;  and  the  old  gentleman  himself  —  what  do  you  call 
him  ?  —  the  bright-eyed  fellow  ?  "  What  more  might  follow  85 
I  never  heard ;  for,  at  this  point,  in  a  perfect  rapture  of 
horror,  I  raised  my  hands  —  both  hands  —  to  both  ears ; 
and,  without  stopping  to  think  or  to  apologize,  I  endeavoured 
to  restore  equanimity  to  my  disturbed  sensibilities  by  shut- 
ting out  all  further  knowledge  of  Lamb's  impieties.  90 

At  length  he  seemed  to  have  finished ;  so  I,  on  my  part, 
thought  I  might  venture  to  take  off  the  embargo :  and  in 
fact  he  had  ceased :  but  no  sooner  did  he  find  me  restored  to 
my  hearing  than  he  said  with  a  most  sarcastic  smile  —  which 
he  could  assume  upon  occasion  —  "  If  you  please,  sir,  we'll  95 
say  grace  before  we  begin."  I  know  not  whether  Lamb  were 
really  piqued  or  not  at  the  mode  by  which  I  had  expressed 


298  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

my  disturbance :  Miss  Lamb  certainly  was  not ;  her  goodness 
led  her  to  pardon  me,  and  to  treat  me  —  in  whatever  light 

100  she  might  really  view  my  almost  involuntary  rudeness  —  as 
the  party  who  had  suffered  wrong ;  and,  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  she  was  so  pointedly  kind  and  conciliatory  in  her 
manner  that  I  felt  greatly  ashamed  of  my  boyish  failure  in 
self-command.     Yet,  after  all,  Lamb  necessarily  appeared 

105  so  much  worse,  in  my  eyes,  as  a  traitor  is  worse  than  an  open 
enemy. 

Lamb,  after  this  one  visit  —  not  knowing  at  that  time 
any  particular  reason  for  continuing  to  seek  his  acquaint- 
ance —  I  did  not  trouble  with  my  calls  for  some  years.     At 

110  length,  however,  about  the  year  1808,  and  for  the  six  or 
seven  following  years,  in  my  evening  visits  to  Coleridge,  I 
used  to  meet  him  again  ;  not  often,  but  sufficiently  to  correct 
the  altogether  very  false  impression  I  had  received  of  his 
character  and  manners. 

Apostrophe  to  Opi\xm 
{From  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater) 

Oh !  just,  subtle,  and  mighty  opium !  that  to  the  hearts  of 
poor  and  rich  alike,  for  the  wounds  that  will  never  heal,  and 
for  "the  pangs  that  tempt  the  spirit  to  rebel,"  bringest  an 
assuaging  balm ;  eloquent  opium !  that  with  thy  potent 
5 rhetoric  stealest  away  the  purposes  of  wrath;  and  to  the 
,  guilty  man  for  one  night  givest  back  the  hopes  of  his  youth, 
and  hands  washed  pure  from  blood ;  and  to  the  proud  man 
a  brief  oblivion  for 

"  Wrongs  unredress'd  and  insults  unavenged ;  " 

10  that  summonest  to  the  chancery  of  dreams,  for  the  triumphs 
of  suffering  innocence,  false  witnesses ;  and  confoundest 
perjury;  and  dost  reverse  the  sentences  of  unrighteous 
judges :  —  thou  buildest  upon  the  bosom  of  darkness,  out  of 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  299; 

the  fantastic  imagery  of  the  brain,  cities  and  temples  beyond 
the  art  of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles  —  beyond  the  splendour  15 
of  Babylon  and  Hekatompylos :  and  "  from  the  anarchy  of 
dreaming  sleep,"  callest  into  sunny  light  the  faces  of  long- 
buried  beauties,  and  the  blessed  household  countenances, 
cleansed  from  the  "dishonours  of  the  grave."  Thou  only 
givest  these  gifts  to  man ;  and  thou  hast  the  keys  of  Para-  20 
dise,  oh,  just,  subtle,  and  mighty  opium ! 


Incident  of  the  Malay 
(From  the  Confessions) 

I  remember,  about  this  time,  a  little  incident,  which  I 
mention,  because,  trifling  as  it  was,  the  reader  will  soon  meet 
it  again  in  my  dreams,  which  it  influenced  more  fearfully 
than  could  be  imagined.  One  day  a  Malay  knocked  at  my 
door.  What  business  a  Malay  could  have  to  transacts 
amongst  English  mountains,  I  cannot  conjecture :  but  pos- 
sibly he  was  on  his  road  to  a  seaport  about  forty  miles  distant. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  him  was  a  young  girl 
born  and  bred  amongst  the  mountains,  who  had  never  seen 
an  Asiatic  dress  of  any  sort:    his  turban,    therefore,   con-io 
founded  her  not  a  little ;  and,  as  it  turned  out  that  his  attain- 
ments in  English  were  exactly  of  the  same  extent  as  hers  in 
the  Malay,   there  seemed  to  be  an  impassable  gulf  fixed 
between   all  communication  of  ideas,   if  either  party  had 
happened  to  possess  any.     In  this  dilemma,  the  girl,  recol-15 
lecting  the  reputed  learning  of  her  master,  and  doubtless 
giving  me  credit  for  a  knowledge  of  all  the  languages  of  the 
earth,  besides,  perhaps,  a  few  of  the  lunar  ones,  came  and 
gave  me  to  understand  that  there  was  a  sort  of  demon  below, 
whom  she  clearly  imagined  that  my  art  could  exorcise  from  20 
the  house.     I  did  not  immediately  go  down :    but,  when  I 
did,  the  group  which  presented  itself,  arranged  as  it  was  by 


300  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

I 

accident,  though  not  very  elaborate,  took  hold  of  my  fancy 
and  my  eye  in  a  way  that  none  of  the  statuesque  attitudes 

25  exhibited  in  the  ballets  at  the  Opera-house,  though  so  osten- 
tatiously complex,  had  ever  done. 

In  a  cottage  kitchen,  but  panelled  on  the  wall  with  dark 
wood  that  from  age  and  rubbing  resembled  oak,  and  looking 
more  like  a  rustic  hall  of  entrance  than  a  kitchen,  stood  the 

30  Malay  —  his  turban  and  loose  trousers  of  dingy  white  relieved 
upon  the  dark  panelling :  he  had  placed  himself  nearer  to  the 
girl  than  she  seemed  to  relish ;  though  her  native  spirit  of 
mountain  intrepidity  contended  with  the  feeling  of  simple  awe 
which  her  countenance  expressed  as  she  gazed  upon  the  tiger- 

35  cat  before  her.  And  a  more  striking  picture  there  could  not 
be  imagined,  than  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the  girl,  and 
its  exquisite  fairness,  together  with  her  erect  and  independent 
attitude,  contrasted  with  the  sallow  and  bilious  skin  of  the 
Malay,  enamelled  or  veneered  with  mahogany,  by  marine 

40  air,  his  small,  fierce  restless  eyes,  thin  lips,  slavish  gestures 
and  adorations.  Half-hidden  by  the  ferocious  looking  Malay 
was  a  little  child  from  a  neighboring  cottage  who  had  crept 
in  after  him,  and  was  now  in  the  act  of  reverting  its  head, 
and  gazing  upwards  at  the  turban  and  the  fiery  eyes  beneath 

45  it,  whilst  with  one  hand  he  caught  at  the  dress  of  the  young 
woman  for  protection.  My  knowledge  of  the  Oriental 
tongues  is  not  remarkably  extensive,  being  indeed  confined 
to  two  words  —  the  Arabic  word  for  barley,  and  the  Turkish 
for  opium  (madjoon),  which  I  have  learnt  from  Anastasius. 

50  And,  as  I  had  neither  a  Malay  dictionary,  nor  even  Ade- 
lung's  "Mithridates,"  which  might  have  helped  me  to  a  few 
words,  I  addressed  him  in  some  lines  from  the  Iliad ;  con- 
sidering that,  of  such  languages  as  I  possessed,  Greek,  in 
point  of  longitude,  came  geographically  nearest  to  an  Oriental 

55  one. 

He  worshipped  me  in  a  most  devout  manner,  and  replied  in 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  301 

what  I  suppose  was  Malay.  In  this  way  I  saved  my  repu- 
tation with  my  neighbors  :  for  the  Malay  had  no  means  of 
betraying  the  secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor  for  about 
an  hour,  and  then  pursued  his  journey.  On  his  departure,  60 
I  presented  him  with  a  piece  of  opium.  To  him,  as  an 
Orientalist,  I  concluded  that  opium  must  be  familiar :  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  convinced  me  that  it  was. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  struck   with   some   little  consterna- 
tion when  I  saw  him  suddenly  raise  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  65 
and,  in  the  schoolboy  phrase,  bolt  the  whole,  divided  into 
three  pieces,  at  one  mouthful.     The  quantity  was  enough 
to  kill  three  dragoons  and  their  horses;    and  I  felt  some 
alarm  for  the  poor  creature;    but  what  could  be  done?     I 
had  given  him  the  opium  in  compassion  for  his  solitary  life,  70 
on  recollecting  that  if  he  had  travelled  on  foot  from  London 
it  must  be  nearly  three  weeks  since  he  could  have  exchanged 
a  thought  with  any  human  being.     I  could  not  think  of 
violating  the  laws  of  hospitality  by  having  him  seized  and 
drenched  with  an  emetic,  and  thus  frightening  him  into  a  75 
notion  that  we  were  going  to  sacrifice  him  to  some  English 
idol.     No  :    there  was  clearly  no  help  for  it :  —  he  took  his 
leave :    and  for  some  days  I  felt  anxious :    but  as  I  never 
heard  of  any  Malay  being  found  dead,  I  became  convinced 
th£it  he  was  used  to  opium :    and  that  I  must  have  done  80 
him  the  service  I  designed,  by  giving  him  one  night  of  respite 
from  the  pains  of  wandering. 

This  incident  I  have  digressed  to  mention,  because  this 
Malay,  partly  from  the  picturesque  exhibition  he  assisted 
to  frame,  partly  from  the  anxiety  I  connected  with  his  image  85 
for  some  days,  fastened  afterwards  upon  my  dreams,  and 
brought  other  Malays  with  him  worse  than  himself,  that 
ran  "a-muck"  at  me,  and  led  me  into  a  world  of  troubles. 


302  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

From  Pleasure  to  Pain 

(From  the  Confessions) 

But  now  farewell  —  a  long  farewell  to  happiness  —  winter 
or  summer !  farewell  to  smiles  and  laughter !  farewell  to 
peace  of  mind !  farewell  to  hope  and  to  tranquil  dreams, 
and  to  the  blessed  consolations  of  sleep !  for  more  than 
5  three  years  and  a  half  I  am  summoned  away  from  these :  I 
am  now  arrived  at  an  Iliad  of  woes  :  for  I  have  now  to  record 

THE  PAINS   OF   OPIUM 

" as  when  some  great  painter  dips 

His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse." 

Shelley's  Revolt  of  Islam. 

A  Digression  on  Reading  Aloud 

{From  the  Confessions) 

I  shall  now  enter  in  medias  res,  and  shall  anticipate,  from 
a  time  when  my  opium  pains  might  be  said  to  be  at  their 
acme,  an  account  of  their  palsying  effects  on  the  intellectual 
faculties. 
5  My  studies  have  now  been  long  interrupted.  I  cannot 
read  to  myself  with  any  pleasure,  hardly  with  a  moment's 
endurance.  Yet  I  read  aloud  sometimes  for  the  pleasure  of 
others ;  because  reading  is  an  accomplishment  as  a  superficial 
and  ornamental  attainment,  almost  the  only  one  I  possess : 

10  and  formerly,  if  I  had  any  vanity  at  all  connected  with  any 
endowment  or  attainment  of  mine,  it  was  with  this ;  for  I 
had  observed  that  no  accomplishment  was  so  rare.  Players 
are  the  worst  readers  of  all :  John  Kemble  reads  vilely : 
and  Mrs.  Siddons,  who  is  so  celebrated,  can  read  nothing 

15  well  but  dramatic  compositions :  Milton  she  cannot  read 
sufferably.     People  in  general  either  read  poetry  without  any 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  303 

passion  at  all,  or  else  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature,  and 
read  not  like  scholars.  Of  late,  if  I  have  felt  moved  by 
anything  in  books,  it  has  been  by  the  grand  lamentations  of 
Samson  Agonistes,  or  the  great  harmonies  of  the  Satanic  20 
speeches  in  "Paradise  Regained,"  when  read  aloud  by  my- 
self. A  young  lady  sometimes  comes  and  drinks  tea  with 
us :  at  her  request  and  M[argaret]'s  I  now  and  then  read 
Wordsworth's  poems  to  them.  (Wordsworth,  by  and  by, 
is  the  only  poet  I  ever  met  who  could  read  his  own  verses :  25 
often  indeed  he  reads  admirably.) 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

First  Meeting  of  Edgar  and  Lucy 
{From  The  Bride  of  Lammennoor,  Chap.  V) 

Lucy  had  scarcely  replied  to  her  father  in  the  words  we 
have  mentioned,  and  he  Was  just  about  to  rebuke  her  sup- 
posed timidity,  when  a  bull,  stimulated  either  by  the  scarlet 
colour  of  Miss  Ashton's  mantle,  or  by  one  of  those  fits  of 
capricious  ferocity  to  which  their  dispositions  are  liable,  5 
detached  himself  suddenly  from  the  group  which  was  feeding 
at  the  upper  extremity  of  a  grassy  glade,  that  seemed  to 
lose  itself  among  the  crossing  and  entangled  boughs.  The 
animal  approached  the  intruders  on  his  pasture  ground,  at 
first  slowly,  pawing  the  ground  with  his  hoof,  bellowing  from  10 
time  to  time,  and  tearing  up  the  sand  with  his  horns,  as  if 
to  lash  himself  up  to  rage  and  violence. 

The  Lord  Keeper,  who  observed  the  animal's  demeanour, 
was  aware  that  he  was  about  to  become  mischievous,  and, 
drawing  his  daughter's  arm  under  his  own,  began  to  walk  15 
fast  along  the  avenue,  in  hopes  to  get  out  of  his  sight  and  his 
reach.  This  was  the  most  injudicious  course  he  could  have 
adopted,  for,  encouraged  by  the  appearance  of  flight,  the 
bull  began  to  pursue  them  at  full  speed.     Assailed  by  a 


304  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

20  danger  so  imminent,  firmer  courage  than  that  of  the  Lord 
Keeper  might,  have  given  way.  But  paternal  tenderness, 
"love  strong  as  death,"  sustained  him.  He  continued  to 
support  and  drag  onward  his  daughter,  until,  her  fears  al- 
together depriving  her  of  the  power  of  flight,  she  sunk  down 

25  by  his  side ;  and  when  he  could  no  longer  assist  her  to  escape, 
he  turned  round  and  placed  himself  betwixt  her  and  the 
raging  animal,  which  advancing  in  full  career,  its  brutal 
fury  enhanced  by  the  rapidity  of  the  pursuit,  was  now  within 
a  few  yards  of  them.     The  Lord  Keeper  had  no  weapons; 

30  his  age  and  gravity  dispensed  even  with  the  usual  appendage 
of  a  walking  sword,  —  could  such  appendage  have  availed 
him  anything. 

It  seemed  inevitable  that  the  father  or  daughter,  or  both, 
should  have  fallen  victims  to  the  impending  danger,  when  a 

35  shot  from  the  neighbouring  thicket  arrested  the  progress 
of  the  animal.  He  was  so  truly  struck  between  the  junction 
of  the  spine  with  the  skull,  that  the  wound,  which  in  any  other 
part  of  his  body  might  scarce  have  impeded  his  career,  proved 
instantly  fatal.     Stumbling  forward  with  a  hideous  bellow, 

40  the  progressive  force  of  his  previous  motion,  rather  than  any 
operation  of  his  limbs,  carried  him  up  to  within  three  yards 
of  the  astonished  Lord  Keeper,  where  he  rolled  on  the  ground, 
his  limbs  darkened  with  the  black  death-sweat,  .and  quivering 
with  the  last  convulsions  of  muscular  motion. 

45  Lucy  lay  senseless  on  the  ground,  insensible  of  the  wonder- 
ful deliverance  which  she  had  experienced.  Her  father  was 
almost  equally  stupefied,  so  rapid  and  unexpected  had  been 
th^  transition  from  the  horrid  death  which  seemed  inevitable, 
to  perfect  security.     He  gazed  on  the  animal,  terrible  even 

50  in  death,  with  a  species  of  mute  and  confused  astonishment, 
which  did  not  permit  him  distinctly  to  understand  what  had 
taken  place ;  and  so  inaccurate  was  his  consciousness  of  what 
had  passed,  that  he  might  have  supposed  the  bull  had  been 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  305 

arrested  in  its  career  by  a  thunderbolt,  had  he  not  observed 
among  the  branches  of  the  thicket  the  figure  of  a  man,  with  55 
a  short  gun  or  musquetoon  in  his  hand. 

This  instantly  recalled  him  to  a  sense  of  their  situation  — 
a  glance  at  his  daughter  reminded  him  of  the  necessity  of 
procuring  her  assistance.  He  called  to  the  man,  whom  he 
concluded  to  be  one  of  his  foresters,  to  give  immediate  60 
attention  to  Miss  Ashton,  while  he  himself  hastened  to  call 
assistance.  The  huntsman  approached  them  accordingly, 
and  the  Lord  Keeper  saw  he  was  a  stranger,  but  was  too  much 
agitated  to  make  any  farther  remarks.  In  a  few  hurried 
words,  he  directed  the  shooter,  as  stronger  and  more  active  65 
than  himself,  to  carry  the  young  lady  to  a  neighbouring 
fountain,  while  he  went  back  to  Alice's  hut  to  procure  more 
aid. 

The  man  to  whose  timely  interference  they  had  been  so 
much  indebted,  did  not  seem  inclined  to  leave  his  good  work  70 
half  finished.     He  r^sed  Lucy  from  the  ground  in  his  arms, 
and  conveying  her  through  the  glades  of  the  forest  by  paths 
with  which  he  seemed  well  acquainted,  stopped  not  until  he 
laid  her  in  safety  by  the  side  of  a  plentiful  and  pellucid 
fountain,  which  had  been  once  covered  in,  screened,  and  75 
decorated  with  architectural  ornaments  of  a  Gothic  char- 
acter.    But  now  the  vault  which  had  covered  it  being  broken 
down  and  riven,  and  the  Gothic  font  ruined  and  demolished, 
the  stream  burst  forth  from  the  recess  of  the  earth  in^  open 
day,  and  winded  its  way  among  the  broken  sculpture  and  80 
moss-grown  stones  which  lay  in  confusion  around  its  source. 

[Three  paragraphs  omitted  here  tell  a  "legendary  tale" 
of  the  meeting  by  this  fountain  of  a  Ravenswood  long  since 
dead,  and  a  beautiful  nymph.  They  met  once  a  week, 
and  the  nymph  insisted  that  they  must  part  with  the  ringing  85 
of  the  vesper  bell.  Once  the  bell  was  delayed,  the  nymph 
plunged  into  the  fountain,  and  was  seen  no  more.     The 


306  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

spot  was  thereafter  regarded  as  fatal  to  the  Ravenswood 
family.] 

90  It  was  on  this  ominous  spot  that  Lucy  Ashton  first  drew 
breath  after  her  long  and  almost  deadly  swoon.  Beautiful 
and  pale  as  the  fabulous  Naiad  in  the  last  agony  of  separation 
from  her  lover,  she  was  seated  so  as  to  rest  with  her  back 
against  a  part  of  the  ruined  wall,  while  her  mantle,  dripping 

95  with  the  water  which  her  protecter  had  used  profusely  to 
recall  her  senses,  clung  to  her  slender  and  beautifully  pro- 
portioned form. 

The  first  moment  of  recollection  brought  to  her  mind  the 
danger  which  had  overpowered  her  senses  —  the  next  called 

100  to  remembrance  that  of  her  father.  She  looked  around  — 
he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  —  "My  father  —  my  father!" 
was  all  that  she  could  ejaculate. 

"Sir  William  is  safe,"  answered  the  voice  of  a  stranger  — 
"perfectly  safe,  and  will  be  with  you  instantly." 

105  "Are  you  sure  of  that?"  exclaimed  Lticy  —  "the  bull  was 
close  by  us  —  do  not  stop  me  —  I  must  go  to  seek  my 
father!" 

And  she  arose  with  that  purpose;    but  her  strength  was 
so  much  exhausted,  that,  far  from  possessing  the  power  to 

110  execute  her  purpose,  she  must  have  fallen  against  the  stone 
on  which  she  had  leant,  probably  not  without  sustaining 
serious  injury. 

The  stranger  was  so  near  to  her,  that,  without  actually 
suffering  her  to  fall,  he  could  not  avoid  catching  her  in  his 

115  arms,  which,  however,  he  did  with  a  momentary  reluctance, 
when  youth  interposes  to  prevent  beauty  from  danger.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  weight,  slight  as  it  was,  proved  too  heavy 
for  her  young  and  athletic  assistant,  for,  without  feeling  the 
temptation  of  detaining  her  in  his  arms  even  for  a  single 

120  instant,  he  again  placed  her  on  the  stone  from  which  she  had 
risen,   and  retreating  a  few  steps,  repeated  hastily,   "Sir 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  307 

William  Ashton  is  perfectly  safe,  and  will  be  here  instantly. 
Do  not  make  yourself  anxious  on  his  account  —  Fate  has 
singularly  preserved  him.     You,  madam,  are  exhausted,  and 
must  not  think  of  rising  until  you  have  some  assistance  more  125 
suitable  than  mine." 

Lucy,  whose  senses  were  by  this  time  more  effectually 
collected,  was  naturally  led  to  look  at  the  stranger  with 
attention.  There  was  nothing  in  his  appearance  which  should 
have  rendered  him  unwilling  to  offer  his  arm  to  a  young  130 
lady  who  required  support,  or  which  could  have  induced  her 
to  refuse  his  assistance;  and  she  could  not  help  thinking, 
even  in  that  moment,  that  he  seemed  cold  and  reluctant  to 
offer  it.  A  shooting-dress  of  dark  cloth  intimated  the  rank 
of  the  wearer,  though  concealed  in  part  by  a  large  and  loose  135 
cloak  of  a  dark  brown  colour.  A  Montero  cap  and  a  black 
feather  drooped  over  the  wearer's  brow,  and  partly  concealed 
his  features,  which,  so  far  as  seen,  were  dark,  regular,  and 
full  of  majestic,  though  somewhat  sullen,  expression.  Some 
secret  sorrow,  or  the  brooding  spirit  of  some  moody  passion,  140 
had  quenched  the  light  and  ingenuous  vivacity  of  youth  in  a 
countenance  singularly  fitted  to  display  both;  and  it  was 
not  easy  to  gaze  on  the  stranger  without  a  secret  impression 
either  of  pity  or  awe,  or  at  least  of  doubt  and  curiosity  allied 
to  both.  145 

The  impression  which  we  have  necessarily  been  long  in 
describing,  Lucy  felt  in  the  glance  of  a  moment,  and  had  no 
sooner  encountered  the  keen  black  eyes  of  the  stranger,  than 
her  own  were  bent  on  the  ground  with  a  mixture  of  bashful 
embarrassment  and  fear.  Yet  there  was  a  necessity  to  speak,  150 
or  at  least  she  thought  so,  and  in  a  fluttered  accent  she  began 
to  mention  her  wonderful  escape,  in  which  she  was  sure 
that  the  stranger  must,  under  Heaven,  have  been  her  father's 
protector,  and  her  own. 

He  seemed  to  shrink  from  her  expressions  of  gratitude,  155 


308  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

while  he  replied  abruptly,  "  I  leave  you,  madam,"  —  the 
deep  melody  of  his  voice  rendered  powerful,  but  not  harsh, 
by  something  like  a  severity  of  tone  —  "I  leave  you  to  the 
protection  of  those  to  whom  it  is  possible  you  may  have  this 

160  day  been  a  guardian  angel." 

Lucy  was  surprised  at  the  ambiguity  of  his  language,  and, 
with  a  feeling  of  artless  and  unaffected  gratitude,  began  to 
deprecate  the  idea  of  having  intended  to  give  her  deliverer 
any  offence,  as  if  such  a  thing  had  been  possible.     "I  have 

165  been  unfortunate,"  she  said,  "in  endeavouring  to  express  my 
thanks  —  I  am  sure  it  must  be  so,  though  I  cannot  recollect 
what  I  said  —  but  would  you  but  stay  till  my  father  —  till 
the  Lord  Keeper  comes  —  would  you  only  permit  him  to 
pay  you  his  thanks,  and  to  enquire  your  name?" 

170  "My  name  is  unnecessary,"  answered  the  stranger; 
"  your  father  —  I  would  rather  say  Sir  William  Ashton  ; — 
will  learn  it  soon  enough,  for  all  the  pleasure  it  is  likely  to 
afford  him." 

"You  mistake  him,"  said  Lucy  earnestly;    "he  will  be 

173  grateful  for  my  sake  and  for  his  own.  You  do  not  know  my 
father,  or  you  are  deceiving  me  with  a  story  of  his  safety, 
when  he  has  already  fallen  a  victim  to  the  fury  of  that 
animal." 

When  she  had  caught  this  idea,   she  started  from  the 

180  ground,  and  endeavoured  to  press  towards  the  avenue  in 
which  the  accident  had  taken  place,  while  the  stranger, 
though  he  seemed  to  hesitate  between  the  desire  to  assist 
and  the  wish  to  leave  her,  was  obliged,  in  common  humanity, 
to  oppose  her  both  by  entreaty  and  action. 

185  "  On  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  madam,  I  tell  you  the  truth ; 
your  father  is  in  perfect  safety ;  you  will  expose  yourself  to 
injury  if  you  venture  back  where  the  herd  of  wild  cattle 
grazed.  —  If  you  will  go"  —  for,  having  once  adopted  the 
idea  that  her  father  was  still  in  danger,  she  pressed  forward 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  309 

in  spite  of  him  — "  If  you  will  go,  accept  my  arm,  though  1 190 
am  not  perhaps  the  person  who  can  with  most  propriety  offer 
you  support." 

But,  without  heeding  this  intimation,  Lucy  took  him  at 
his  word.     "O  if  you  be  a  man,"  she  said,  —  "If  you  be  a 
gentleman,  assist  me  to  find  my  father !     You  shall  not  195 
leave  me  —  you  must  go  with  me  —  he  is  dying  perhaps  while 
we  are  talking  here!" 

Then,  without  listening  to  excuse  or  apology,  and  holding 
fast  by  the  stranger's  arm,  though  unconscious  of  any  thing 
save  the  support  which  it  gave,  and  without  which  she  200 
could  not  have  moved,  mixed  with  a  vague  feeling  of  pre- 
venting his  escape  from  her,  she  was  urging,  and  almost 
dragging  him  forward,  when  Sir  William  Ashton  came  up, 
followed  by  the  female  attendant  of  blind  Alice,  and  by  two 
wood-cutters,  whom  he  had  summoned  from  their  occupa-205 
tion  to  his  assistance.  His  joy  at  seeing  his  daughter  safe, 
overcame  the  surprise  with  which  he  would  at  another  time 
have  beheld  her  hanging  as  familiarly  on  the  arm  of  a  stranger, 
as  she  might  have  done  upon  his  own. 

"Lucy,  my  dear  Lucy,  are  you  safe?  —  are  you  well? "210 
were  the  only  words  that  broke  from  him  as  he  embraced  her 
in  ecstasy. 

"  I  am  well,  sir,  thank  God !  and  still  more  that  I  see  j^ou 
so ;  —  but  this  gentleman,"  she  said,  quitting  his  arm,  and 
shrinking  from  him,  "What  must  he  think  of  me?"  and  her 215 
eloquent  blood,  flushing  over  neck  and  brow,  spoke  how 
much  she  was  ashamed  of  the  freedom  with  which  she  had 
craved,  and  even  compelled  his  assistance. 

"  This  gentleman,"  said  Sir  William  Ashton,  "  will,  I  trust, 
not  regret  the  trouble  we  have  given  him,  when  I  assure  him  220 
of  the  gratitude  of  the  Lord  Keeper  for  the  greatest  service 
which  one  man  ever  rendered  to  another  —  for  the  life  of 
my  child  —  for  my  own  life,  which  he  has  saved  by  his 


310  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

bravery  and  presence  of  mind.     He  will,  I  am  sure,  permit  us 

225  to  request"  — 

"Request  nothing  of  me,  my  lord,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a 
stern  and  peremptory  tone;  "I  am  the  Master  of  Ravens- 
wood." 

There  was  a  dead  pause  of  surprise,  not  unmixed  with  less 

230  pleasant  feelings.  The  Master  wrapt  himself  in  his  cloak, 
made  a  haughty  inclination  towards  Lucy,  muttering  a  few 
words  of  courtesy,  as  indistinctly  heard  as  they  seemed  to  be 
reluctantly  uttered,  and,  turning  from  them,  was  imme- 
diately lost  in  the  thicket. 

Soldier,  Rest ! 
(Frbm  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  I) 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
6  In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall. 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
10  Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 
Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
15  Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow. 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  driun, 
20  Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  311 

Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near. 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing. 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done ;  25 

While  our  slvunbrous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep !  the  deer  is  in  his  den ; 

Sleep !  thy  hoimds  are  by  thee  lying :  30 

Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sim. 

For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye  35 

Here  no  bugles  soimd  reveille. 

Here's  a  Health  to  King  Charles 
{From  Woodstock,  Chap.  XX) 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast. 

Fill  it  up  to  the  brim ; 
'Tis  to  him  we  love  most. 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up,  5 

And  avaunt  ye,  base  carles ! 
Were  there  death  in  the  cup. 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles  1 

Though  he  wanders  through  dangers. 

Unaided,  unknown,  10 

Dependent  on  strangers. 

Estranged  from  his  OAvn ; 
Though  'tis  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils. 
Here's  to  honour  and  faith,  15 

And  a  health  to  King  Charles  1 


312  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Let  such  honours  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford. 
The  knee  on  the  ground, 
20  And  the  hand  on  the  sword ; 

But  the  time  shall  come  round 

When,  'mid  Lords,  Dukes,  and  Earls,, 
The  loud  trumpet  shall  sound. 

Here's  a  health  to  King  Charles ! 

The  Escape  of  Mannion 
{From  Marmion,  Canto  VI) 

XIII 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day,," 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride ; 
He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band 
5  Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide ; 
The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  gracev,  ^ 

Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place. 
And  whisper'd  in  an  under  tone, 
10  "Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown.'*' — - 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew. 
But  Marmion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu :  — 

"Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said*», 
"Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
15  Sent  hither  by  your  King's  behest. 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."^  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak,. 
20  Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke : 

"My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  Sovereign's  will, 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer^ 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  313 

My  castles  are  my  King's  alone,  25 

From  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 

The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own ; 

And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 

The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp."  — 


XIV 

Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire,  30 

And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire. 

And  —  "This  to  me ! "  he  said,  — 
"An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard. 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  !  35 

And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here. 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate  : 

And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here,  40 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied !  45 

And  if  thou  said'st,  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near. 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !"  — 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage  50 

O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  "And  darest  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ?  —  55 

No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  .Bothwell,  no  I 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what.  Warder,  ho  1 

Let  the  portcullis  fall."  — 


314  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Lord  Marmion  turn'd,  —  well  was  his  need, 
60  And  dash'd  the  rowel  in  his  steed, 

Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung. 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars  descending,  razed  his  pliune. 

XV 

65  The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies. 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 

Nor  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reach'd  his  band, 
70  He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"Horse!  horse!"  the  Douglas  cried,  "and  chase  I' 

But  soon  he  rein'd  his  fury's  pace  : 
75  "A  royal  messenger  he  came, 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. 

A  letter  forged  !  Saint  Jude  to  speed  I 

Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ! 

At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill, 
80  When  the  King  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 

Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine. 

Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line : 

So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still. 

Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill.  — 
85  Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 

Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 

I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 

'Tis  pity  of  him  too,"  he  cried  : 

"Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride, 
90  I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." 

With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 

And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 


JANE  AUSTEN  315 

JANE   AUSTEN 

Elizabeth  has  a  Distinguished  Visitor 
{From  Pride  and  Prejudice,  Chap.  LVI) 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  Bingley's  engagement 
with  Jane  had  been  formed,  as  he  and  the  females  of  the 
family  were  sitting  together  in  the  dining-room,  their 
attention  was  suddenly  drawn  to  the  window,  by  the  sound 
of  a  carriage ;  and  they  perceived  a  chaise-and-f our  driving  5 
up  the  lawn.  It  was  too  early  in  the  morning  for  visitors, 
and  besides,  the  equipage  did  not  answer  to  that  of  any  of 
their  neighbours.  The  horses  were  post;  and  neither  the 
carriage  nor  the  livery  of  the  servant  who  preceded  it,  were 
familiar  to  them.  As  it  was  certain,  however,  that  somebody  10 
was  coming,  Bingley  instantly  prevailed  on  Miss  Bennet  to 
avoid  the  confinement  of  such  an  intrusion,  and  walk  away 
with  him  into  the  shrubbery.  They  both  set  off,  and  the 
conjectures  of  the  remaining  three  continued,  though  with 
little  satisfaction,  till  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  their  15 
visitor  entered.     It  was  Lady  Catherine  de  Bourgh. 

They  were  of  course  all  intending  to  be  surprised ;  but 
their  astonishment  was  beyond  their  expectation;  and  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Bennet  and  Kitty,  though  she  was  per- 
fectly unknown  to  them,  even  inferior  to  what  Elizabeth  felt.  20 

She  entered  the  room  with  an  air  more  than  usually  un- 
gracious, made  no  other  reply  to  Elizabeth's  salutation  than 
a  slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  sat  down  without  saying 
a  word.  Elizabeth  had  mentioned  her  name  to  her  mother 
on  her  ladyship's  entrance,  though  no  request  of  introduction  25 
had  been  made. 

Mrs.  Bennet,  all  amazement,  though  flattered  by  having  a 
guest  of  such  high  importance,  received  her  with  the  utmost 
politeness.  After  sitting  for  a  moment  in  silence,  she  said, 
very  stiffly  to  Elizabeth  —  30 


316  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"  I  hope  you  are  well,  Miss  Bennet.     That  lady,  I  suppose, 
is  your  mother?" 

Elizabeth  replied  very  concisely  that  she  was. 
"And  that,  I  suppose,  is  one  of  your  sisters?" 
35      "Yes,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Bennet,  delighted  to  speak  to  a 
Lady  Catherine.     "She  is  my  youngest  girl  but  one,  my 
youngest  of  all  is  lately  married ;  and  my  eldest  is  somewhere 
about  the  ground,  walking  with  a  young  man,  who,  I  believe, 
will  soon  become  a  part  of  the  family." 
40      "You   have   a   very   small   park   here,"   returned    Lady 
Catherine,  after  a  short  silence. 

"  It  is  nothing  in  comparison  of  Rosings,  my  lady,  I  dare  say ; 
but,  I  assure  you,  it  is  much  larger  than  Sir  William  Lucas's." 
"This  must  be  a  most  inconvenient  sitting;-room  for  the 
45 evening  in  summer:   the  windows  are  full  west." 

Mrs.  Bennet  assured  her  that  they  never  sat  there  after 
dinner,  and  then  added  — 

"May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  your  ladyship  whether 
you  left  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colhns  well?" 
50     "Yes,  very  well.     I  saw  them  the  night  before  last." 

Elizabeth  now  expected  that  she  would  produce  a  letter 
for  her  from  Charlotte,  as  it  seemed  the  only  probable  motive 
for  her  calling.  But  no  letter  appeared,  and  she  was  com- 
pletely puzzled. 
55  Mrs.  Bennet,  with  great  civility,  begged  her  ladyship  to 
take  some  refreshment ;  but  Lady  Catherine  very  resolutely, 
and  not  very  politely,  declined  eating  anything;  and  then 
rising  up,  said  to  Elizabeth  — 

"Miss  Bennet,  there  seemed  to  be  a  prettyish  kind  of  a 

60  little  wilderness  on  one  side  of  your  lawn.     I  should  be  glad 

to  take  a  turn  in  it,  if  you  will  favour  me  with  your  company." 

"Go,  my  dear,"  cried  her  mother,  "and  shew  her  ladyship 

about  the  different  walks.     I  think  she  will  be  pleased  with 

the  hermitage." 


JANE  AUSTEN  317 

Elizabeth  obeyed,  and,  running  into  her  own  room  for  her  65 
parasol,  attended  her  noble  guest  downstairs.     As  they  passed 
through  the  hall.  Lady  Catherine  opened  the  doors  into  the 
dining-parlour  and  drawing-room,   and  pronouncing  them, 
after  a  short  survey,  to  be  decent-looking  rooms,  walked  on. 

Her  carriage  remained  at  the  door,  and  Elizabeth  saw  70 
that  her  waiting-woman  was  in  it.     They  proceeded  in  silence 
along  the  gravel-walk  that  led  to  the  copse ;   Elizabeth  was 
determined  to  make  no  effort  for  conversation  with  a  woman 
who  was  now  more  than  usually  insolent  and  disagreeable. 

"  How  could  I  ever  think  her  like  her  nephew  ?  "  said  she,  75 
as  she  looked  in  her  face. 

As  soon  as  they  entered  the  copse.  Lady  Catherine  began 
in  the  following  manner :  — 

"You  can  be  at  no  loss,  Miss  Bennet,  to  understand  the 
reason  of  my  journey  hither.     Your  own  heart,  your  own  80 
conscience,  must  tell  you  why  I  come." 

Elizabeth  looked  with  unaffected  astonishment. 

"Indeed,  you  are  mistaken,  madam.     I  have  not  been  at 
all  able  to  account  for  the  honour  of  seeing  you  here." 

"  Miss  Bennet,"  replied  her  ladyship,  in  an  angry  tone,  85 
"you  ought  to  know  that  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with.     But, 
however  insincere  you  may  choose  to  be,  you  shall  not  find 
me  so.     My  character  has  ever  been  celebrated  for  its  sin- 
cerity and  frankness,  and  in  a  cause  of  such  moment  as  this 
I  shall  certainly  not  depart  from  it.     A  report  of  a  most  90 
alarming  nature  reached   me   two  days   ago.     I  was   told 
that  not  only  your  sister  was  on  the  point  of  being  most 
advantageously  married,  but  that  you,  that  Miss  Elizabeth 
Bennet,  would,  in  all  likelihood,  be  soon  afterwards  united 
to  my  nephew  —  my  own  nephew  —  Mr.  Darcy.     Though  1 95 
know  it  must  be  a  scandalous  falsehood  —  though  I  would 
not  injure  him  so  much  as  to  suppose  the  truth  of  it  possible, 
I  instantly  resolved  on  setting  off  for  this  place,  that  I  might 
make  my  sentiments  known  to  you." 


318  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

100  "If  you  believed  it  impossible  to  be  true,"  said  Elizabeth, 
colouring  with  astonishment  and  disdain,  "I  wonder  you 
took  the  trouble  of  coming  so  far.  What  could  your  lady- 
ship propose  by  it?" 

"At  once  to  insist  upon  having  such  a  report  universally 
105  contradicted." 

"Your  coming  to  Longbourn,  to  see  me  and  my  family," 
said  Elizabeth  coolly,  "  will  be  rather  a  confirmation  of  it ; 
if,  indeed,  such  a  report  is  in  existence." 

"  If !   do  you,  then,  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of  it  ?     Has  it 
110 not  been  industriously  circulated  by  yourselves?     Do  you 
not  know  that  such  a  report  is  spread  abroad?" 
"I  never  heard  that  it  was." 

"  And  can  you  likewise  declare,  that  there  is  no  foundation 
for  it?" 
115      "I  do  not  pretend  to  possess  equal  frankness  with  your 
ladyship.     You  may  ask  questions,  which  /  shall  not  choose 
to  answer." 

"  This  is  not  to  be  borne !     Miss  Bennet,  I  insist  on  being 
satisfied.     Has  he,  has  my  nephew,  made  you  an  offer  of 
120  marriage?" 

"Your  ladyship  has  declared  it  to  be  impossible." 

"  It  ought  to  be  so ;  it  must  be  so,  while  he  retains  the  use 

of  his  reason.     But  your  arts  and  allurements  may,  in  a 

moment  of  infatuation,  have  made  him  forget  what  he  owes 

125  to  himself  and  to  all  his  family.      You  may  have  drawn 

him  in." 

"  If  I  have,  I  shall  be  the  last  person  to  confess  it." 
"  Miss  Bennet,  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?     I  have  not  been 
accustomed  to  such  language  as  this.     I  am  almost  the  nearest 
130  relation  he  has  in  the  world,  and  am  entitled  to  know  all  his 
dearest  concerns." 

"But  you  are  not  entitled  to  know  mine;  nor  will  such 
behaviour  as  this  ever  induce  me  to  be  explicit." 


JANE  AUSTEN  319 

"  Let  me  be  rightly  understood.     This  match,  to  which  you 
have  the  presumption  to  aspire,  can  never  take  place.     No,  135 
never.     Mr.  Darcy  is  engaged  to  my  daughter.     Now,  what 
have  you  to  say?" 

"  Only  this :    that  if  he  is  so,  you  can  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  he  will  make  an  offer  to  me." 

Lady    Catherine    hesitated    for    a    moment,    and    then  140 
replied  — 

"The  engagement  between  them  is  of  a  peculiar  kind. 
From  their  infancy,  they  have  been  intended  for  each  other. 
It  was  the  favourite  wish  of  his  mother,  as  well  as  of  hers. 
While  in  their  cradles,  we  planned  the  union :  and  now,  at  145 
the  moment  when  the  wishes  of  both  sisters  would  be  ac- 
complished in  their  marriage,  to  be  prevented  by  a  young 
woman  of  inferior  birth,  of  no  importance  in  the  world,  and 
wholly  unallied  to  the  family !  Do  you  pay  no  regard  to 
the  wishes  of  his  friends  —  to  his  tacit  engagement  with  150 
Miss  de  Bourgh  ?  Are  you  lost  to  every  feeling  of  propriety 
and  delicacy?  Have  you  not  heard  me  say  that  from  his 
earliest  hours  he  was  destined  for  his  cousin?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  had  heard  it  before.  But  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
If  there  is  no  other  objection  to  my  marrying  your  nephew,  155 
I  shall  certainly  not  be  kept  from  it  by  knowing  that  his 
mother  and  aunt  wished  him  to  marry  Miss  de  Bourgh.  You 
both  did  as  much  as  you  could,  in  planning  the  marriage; 
its  completion  depended  on  others.  If  Mr.  Darcy  is  neither 
by  honour  nor  inclination  confined  to  his  cousin,  why  is  160 
not  he  to  make  another  choice  ?  and  if  I  am  that  choice,  why 
may  I  not  accept  him?" 

"  Because   honour,    decorum,     prudence  —  nay,    interest, 
forbid  it.     Yes,  Miss  Bennet,  interest ;  for  do  not  expect  to 
be  noticed  by  his  family  or  friends  if  you  wilfully  act  against  165 
the  inclinations  of  all.     You  will  be  censured,  slighted,  and 
despised  by  every  one  connected  with  him.     Your  alliance 


320  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

will  be  a  disgrace ;  your  name  will  never  even  be  mentioned 
by  any  of  us." 

170  "These  are  heavy  misfortunes,"  replied  Elizabeth.  "But 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Darcy  must  have  such  extraordinary  sources 
of  happiness  necessarily  attached  to  her  situation,  that  she 
could,  upon  the  whole,  have  no  cause  to  repine." 

"  Obstinate,  headstrong  girl !     I  am  ashamed  of  you !     Is 

175  this  your  gratitude  for  my  attentions  to  you  last  spring  ?  Is 
nothing  due  to  me  on  that  score? 

"Let  us  sit  down.  You  are  to  understand.  Miss  Bennet, 
that  I  came  here  with  the  determined  resolution  of  carrying 
my  purpose;    nor  will  I  be  dissuaded  from  it.     I  have  not 

180  been  used  to  submit  to  any  person's  whims.  I  have  not  been 
in  the  habit  of  brooking  disappointment." 

"  That  will  make  your  ladyship's  situation  at  present  more 
pitiable;    but  it  will  have  no  effect  on  me." 

"  I  will  not  be  interrupted !     Hear  me  in  silence.     My 

185  daughter  and  my  nephew  are  formed  for  each  other.  They 
are  descended,  on  the  maternal  side,  from  the  same  noble 
line ;  and,  on  the  fathers',  from  respectable,  honourable,  and 
ancient,  though  untitled  families.  Their  fortune  on  both 
sides  is  splendid.     They  are  destined  for  each  other  by  the 

190  voice  of  every  member  of  their  respective  houses ;  and  what 
is  to  divide  them?  The  upstart  pretensions  of  a  young 
woman  without  family,  connections,  or  fortune.  Is  this  to 
be  endured  ?  But  it  must  not,  shall  not  be !  If  you  were 
sensible  of  your  own  good,  you  would  not  wish  to  quit  the 

195  sphere  in  which  you  have  been  brought  up." 

"  In  marrying  your  nephew  I  should  not  consider  myself  as 
quitting  that  sphere.  He  is  a  gentleman ;  I  am  a  gentleman's 
daughter :  so  far  we  are  equal," 

"True.     You  are  a  gentleman's  daughter.     But  who  was 

200  your  mother  ?  Who  are  your  uncles  and  aunts  ?  Do  not 
imagine  me  ignorant  of  their  condition." 


JANE  AUSTEN  321 

"Whatever  my  connections  may  be,"  said  Elizabeth,  "if 
your  nephew  does  not  object  to  them,  they  can  be  nothing 
to  you." 

"  Tell  me,  once  for  all,  are  you  engaged  to  him  ?  "  205 

Though  Elizabeth  would  not,  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
obliging  Lady  Catherine,  have  answered  this  question,  she 
could  not  but  say,  after  a  moment's  deliberation,  "  I  am  not." 

Lady  Catherine  seemed  pleased. 

"And  will  you  promise  me  never  to  enter  into  such  an 210 
engagement?" 

"I  will  make  no  promise  of  the  kind." 

"Miss  Bennet,  I  am  shocked  and  astonished.     I  expected 
to  find  a  more  reasonable  young  woman.     But  do  not  de- 
ceive yourself  into  a  belief  that  I  will  ever  recede,     I  shall  215 
not  go  away  till  you  have  given  me  the  assurance  I  require." 

"And  I  certainly  never  shall  give  it.  I  am  not  to  be 
intimidated  into  anything  so  wholly  unreasonable.  Your 
ladyship  wants  Mr.  Darcy  to  marry  your  daughter;  but 
would  my  giving  you  the  wished-for  promise  make  their  220 
marriage  at  all  more  probable?  Supposing  him  to  be  at- 
tached to  me,  would  my  refusing  to  accept  his  hand  make 
him  wish  to  bestow  it  on  his  cousin?  Allow  me  to  say. 
Lady  Catherine,  that  the  arguments  with  which  you  have 
supported  this  extraordinary  application  have  been  as  225 
frivolous  as  the  application  was  ill-judged.  You  have 
widely  mistaken  my  character,  if  you  think  I  can  be  worked 
on  by  such  persuasions  as  these.  How  far  your  nephew 
might  approve  of  your  interference  in  his  affairs  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  you  have  certainly  no  right  to  concern  yourself  230 
in  mine.  I  must  beg,  therefore,  to  be  importuned  no  further 
on  the  subject." 

"Not  so  hasty,  if  you  please.  I  have  by  no  means  done. 
To  all  the  objections  I  have  already  urged,  I  have  still  an- 
other to  add.     I  am  no  stranger  to  the  particulars  of  your  235 


322  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

youngest  sister's  infamous  elopement.  I  know  it  all ;  that 
the  young  man's  marrying  her  was  a  patched-up  business, 
at  the  expense  of  your  father  and  uncle.  And  is  such  a 
girl  to  be  my  nephew's  sister?     Is  her  husband,  who  is  the 

240  son  of  his  late  father's  steward,  to  be  his  brother  ?  Heaven 
and  earth  —  of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  Are  the  shades  of 
Pemberley  to  be  thus  polluted?" 

"  You  can  now  have  nothing  farther  to  say,"  she  resentfully 
answered.     "  You  have  insulted  me  in  every  possible  method. 

245  I  must  beg  to  return  to  the  house." 

And  she  rose  as  she  spoke.     Lady  Catherine  rose  also, 

and  they  turned  back.     Her  ladyship  was  highly  incensed. 

"  You  have  no  regard,  then,  for  the  honour  and  credit  of 

my  nephew !     Unfeeling,  selfish  girl !     Do  you  not  consider 

250  that  a  connection  with  you  must  disgrace  him  in  the  eyes 
of  everybody?" 

"Lady  Catherine,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say.     You 
know  my  sentiments." 

"You  are,  then,  resolved  to  have  him?" 

255  "  I  have  said  no  such  thing.  I  am  only  resolved  to  act  in 
that  manner  which  will,  in  my  own  opinion,  constitute  my 
happiness,  without  reference  to  you,  or  to  any  person  so 
wholly  unconnected  with  me." 

"It  is  well.     You  refuse,  then,  to  oblige  me.     You  refuse 

260  to  obey  the  claims  of  duty,  honour,  and  gratitude.  You  are 
determined  to  ruin  him  in  the  opinion  of  all  his  friends,  and 
make  him  the  contempt  of  the  world." 

"Neither  duty,  nor  honour,  nor  gratitude,"  replied  Eliza- 
beth, "  has  any  possible  claim  on  me  in  the  present  instance. 

265  No  principle  of  either  would  be  violated  by  my  marriage 
with  Mr.  Darcy.  And  with  regard  to  the  resentment  of 
his  family  or  the  indignation  of  the  world,  if  the  former 
were  excited  by  his  marrying  me,  it  would  not  give  me  one 
moment's  concern  —  and  the  world  in  general  would  have 

270  too  much  sense  to  join  in  the  scorn." 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  323 

"  And  this  is  your  real  opinion !  This  is  your  final  resolve ! 
Very  well.  I  shall  now  know  how  to  act.  Do  not  imagine, 
Miss  Bennet,  that  your  ambition  will  ever  be  gratified.  I 
came  to  try  you.  I  hoped  to  find  you  reasonable;  but, 
depend  upon  it,  I  will  carry  my  point."  275 

In  this  manner  Lady  Catherine  talked  on,  till  they  were 
at  the  door  of  the  carriage,  when,  turning  hastily  round,  she 
added  — 

"I  take  no  leave  of  you,  Miss  Bennet.     I  send  no  com- 
pliments to  your  mother.     You  deserve  no  such  attention.  280 
I  am  seriously  displeased." 

Elizabeth  made  no  answer,  and,  without  attempting  to 
persuade  her  ladyship  to  return  into  the  house,  walked 
quietly  into  it  herself. 

THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY 

James  Boswell 
(From  essay  on  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson) 

That  such  a  man  should  have  written  one  of  the  best  books 
in  the  world  is  strange  enough.  But  this  is  not  all.  Many 
persons  who  have  conducted  themselves  foolishly  in  active 
life,  and  whose  conversation  has  indicated  no  superior  powers 
of  mind,  have  left  us  valuable  works.  Goldsmith  was  very  5 
justly  described  by  one  of  his  contemporaries  as  an  inspired 
idiot,  and  by  another  as  a  being, 

"  Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like  poor  Poll." 

La  Fontaine  was  in  society  a  mere  simpleton.  His  blunders 
would  not  come  in  amiss  among  the  stories  of  Hierocles.  But  10 
these  men  attained  literary  eminence  in  spite  of  their  weak- 
nesses. Boswell  attained  it  by  reason  of  his  weaknesses.  If 
he  had  not  been  a  great  fool,  he  would  never  have  been  a  great 
writer.     Without  all  the  qualities  which  made  him  the  jest 


324  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

15  and  the  torment  of  those  among  whom  he  lived,  without 
the  officiousness,  the  inquisitiveness,  the  effrontery,  the  toad- 
eating,  the  insensibihty  to  all  reproof,  he  never  could  have 
produced  so  excellent  a  book.  He  was  a  slave  proud  of 
his  servitude,  a  Paul  Pry,  convinced  that  his  own  curiosity 

20  and  garrulity  were  virtues,  an  unsafe  companion  who  never 
scrupled  to  repay  the  most  liberal  hospitality  by  the  basest 
violation  of  confidence,  a  man  without  delicacy,  without 
shame,  without  sense  enough  to  know  when  he  was  hurting  the 
feelings  of  others  or  when  he  was  exposing  himself  to  derision ; 

25  and  because  he  was  all  this,  he  has,  in  an  important  depart- 
ment of  literature,  immeasurably  surpassed  such  writers  as 
Tacitus,  Clarendon,  Alfieri,  and  his  own  idol  Johnson, 

Of  the  talents  which  ordinarily  raise  men  to  eminence  as 
writers,  Boswell  had  absolutely  none.     There  is  not  in  all 

30  his  books  a  single  remark  of  his  own  on  literature,  politics, 
religion,  or  society,  which  is  not  either  commonplace  or 
absurd.  His  dissertations  on  hereditary  gentility,  on  the 
slave-trade,  and  on  the  entailing  of  landed  estates,  may 
serve  as  examples.     To  say  that  these  passages  are  sophistical 

35  would  be  to  pay  them  an  extravagant  compliment.  They 
have  no  pretence  to  argument,  or  even  to  meaning.  He  has 
reported  innumerable  observations  made  by  himself  in  the 
course  of  conversation.  Of  those  observations  we  do  not 
remember  one  which  is  above  the  intellectual  capacity  of  a 

40  boy  of  fifteen.  He  has  printed  many  of  his  own  letters,  and 
in  these  letters  he  is  always  ranting  or  twaddling.  Logic, 
eloquence,  wit,  taste,  all  those  things  which  are  generally 
considered  as  making  a  book  valuable,  were  utterly  wanting 
to  him.     He  had,  indeed,  a  quick  observation  and  a  retentive 

45  memory.  These  qualities,  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  sense  and 
virtue,  would  scarcely  of  themselves  have  sufficed  to  make 
him  conspicuous;  but  because  he  was  a  dunce,  a  parasite, 
and  a  coxcomb,  they  have  made  him  immortal. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  325 

Scene  at  the  Trial  of  Warren  Hastings 
{From  essay  on  Warren  Hastings) 

On  the  13th  of  February,  1788,  the  sittings  of  the  Court 
commenced.  There  have  been  spectacles  more  dazzling 
to  the  eye,  more  gorgeous  with  jewelry  and  cloth  of  gold, 
more  attractive  to  grown-up  children,  than  that  which  was 
then  exhibited  at  Westminster;  but,  perhaps,  there  never 5 
was  a  spectacle  so  well  calculated  to  strike  a  highly  cultivated, 
a  reflecting,  and  imaginative  mind.  All  the  various  kinds  of 
interest  which  belong  to  the  near  and  to  the  distant,  to  the 
present  and  to  the  past,  were  collected  on  one  spot,  and  in  one 
hour.  All  the  talents  and  all  the  accomplishments  which  are  lo 
developed  by  liberty  and  civilization  were  now  displayed, 
with  every  advantage  that  could  be  derived  both  from  co- 
operation and  from  contrast.  Every  step  in  the  proceedings 
carried  the  mind  either  backward,  through  many  troubled 
centuries,  to  the  days  when  the  foundations  of  our  constitu- 15 
tion  were  laid,  or  far  away,  over  boundless  seas  and  deserts, 
to  dusky  nations  living  under  strange  stars,  worshipping 
strange  gods,  and  writing  strange  characters  from  right  to 
left.  The  High  Court  of  Parliament  was  to  sit,  according 
to  forms  handed  down  from  the  days  of  the  Plantagenets,  20 
on  an  Englishman  accused  of  exercising  tyranny  over  the 
lord  of  the  holy  city  of  Benares,  and  over  the  ladies  of  the 
princely  house  of  Oude. 

The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It  was  the  great 
hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall  which  had  resounded  with  25 
acclamations  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings,  the  hall 
which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon  and  the  just 
absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall  where  the  eloquence  of  Strafford 
had  for  a  moment  awed  and  melted  a  victorious  party  in- 
flamed with  just  resentment,  the  hall  where  Charles  had  30 
confronted  the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid  courage 


326  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame.  Neither  military  nor 
civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The  avenues  were  lined  with 
grenadiers.     The  streets  were  kept  clear  by  cavalry.     The 

35  peers,  robed  in  gold  and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the 
heralds  under  Garter  King-at-arms.  The  judges  in  their 
vestments  of  state  attended  to  give  advice  on  points  of  law. 
Near  a  hundred  and  seventy  lords,  three  fourths  of  the 
Upper  House  as  the  Upper  House  then  was,  walked  in  solemn 

40  order  from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tribunal. 
The  junior  Baron  present  led  the  way,  George  Eliott,  Lord 
Heathfield,  recently  ennobled  for  his  memorable  defence  of 
Gibraltar  against  the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and  Spain. 
The  long  procession  was  closed  by  the  Duke  of   Norfolk, 

45  Earl  Marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great  dignitaries,  and  by 

the  brothers  and  sons  of  the  King.     Last  of  all  came  the 

Prince  of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  noble 

bearing.     The  gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet. 

The  long  galleries  were  crowded  by  an  audience  such  as  has 

60  rarely  excited  the  fears  or  the  emulation  of  an  orator.  There 
were  gathered  together,  from  all  parts  of  a  great,  free,  en- 
lightened, and  prosperous  empire,  grace  and  female  loveliness, 
wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  every  science  and  of 
every  art.     There  were  seated  round  the  Queen  the  fair- 

55  haired  young  daughters  of  the  house  of  Brunswick.  There 
the  Ambassadors  of  great  Kings  and  Commonwealths  gazed 
with  admiration  on  a  spectacle  which  no  other  country  in  the 
world  could  present.  There  Siddons,  in  the  prime  of  her  ma- 
jestic beauty,  looked  with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all 

60  the  imitations  of  the  stage.  There  the  historian  of  the  Roman 
Empire  thought  of  the  days  when  Cicero  pleaded  the  cause 
of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and  when,  before  a  senate  which 
still  retained  some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus  thundered 
against  the  oppressor  of  Africa.     There  were  seen,  side  by 

65  side,  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest  scholar  of  the 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  327 

age.     The  spectacle  had  allured  Reynolds  from  that  easel  • 
which  has  preserved  to  us  the  thoughtful  foreheads  of  so 
many  writers  and  statesmen,  and  the  sweet  smiles  of  so  many 
noble  matrons.     It  had  induced  Parr  to  suspend  his  labors 
in  that  dark  and  profound  mine  from  which  he  had  extracted  70 
a  vast  treasure  of  erudition,  a  treasure  too  often  buried  in 
the  earth,  too  often  paraded  with  injudicious  and  inelegant 
ostentation,  but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splendid.     There 
appeared  the  voluptuous  charms  of  her  to  whom  the  heir  of 
the  throne  had  in  secret  plighted  his  faith.     There  too  was  75 
she,  the  beautiful   mother  of  a   beautiful   race,   the  Saint 
Cecilia,  whose  delicate  features,   lighted  up  by  love  and 
music,   art  has  rescued  from  the  common  decay.     There 
were  the  members  of  that  brilliant  society  which  quoted, 
criticised,  and  exchanged  repartees,  under  the  rich  peacock- 80 
hangings  of  Mrs.  Montague.     And  there  the  ladies  whose 
lips,  more  persuasive  than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried 
the  Westminster  election  against  palace  and  treasury,  shone 
around  Georgiana  Duchess  of  Devonshire. 

London  Coffee-Houses 
(From  History  of  England,  Chap.  Ill) 

The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed  with  a  cursory 
mention.  It  might,  indeed,  at  that  time  have  been  not 
improperly  called  a  most  important  political  institution.  No 
Parliament  had  sat  for  years.  The  municipal  council  of  the 
city  had  ceased  to  speak  the  sense  of  the  citizens.  Publics 
meetings,  harangues,  resolutions,  and  the  rest  of  the  modern 
machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet  come  into  fashion.  Noth- 
ing resembling  the  modern  newspaper  existed.  In  such 
circumstances  the  coffee-houses  were  the  chief  organs  through 
which  the  public  opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented  itself.  10 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been  set  up,  in  the 


328  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

.  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had 
acquired  among  the  Mahometans  a  taste  for  their  favourite 
beverage.     The  convenience  of  being  able  to  make  appoint- 

isments  in  any  part  of  the  town,  and  of  being  able  to  pass 
evenings  socially  at  a  very  small  charge,  was  so  great  that  the 
fashion  spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  upper  or  middle 
class  went  daily  to  his  coffee-house  to  learn  the  news  and 
discuss  it.     Every  coffee-house  had  one  or  more  orators  to 

20  whose  eloquence  the  crowd  listened  with  admiration,  and  who 
soon  became,  what  the  journalists  of  our  time  have  been 
called,  a  fourth  Estate  of  the  realm.  The  court  had  long 
seen  with  uneasiness  the  growth  of  this  new  power  in  the 
state. 

25  An  attempt  had  been  made,  during  Danby's  adminis- 
tration, to  close  the  coffee-houses.  But  men  of  all  parties 
missed  their  usual  places  of  resort  so  much  that  there 
was  a  universal  outcry.  The  government  did  not  venture, 
in  opposition  to  a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  enforce  a 

30  regulation  of  which  the  legality  might  well  be  questioned. 
Since  that  time  ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  during  those 
years  the  number  and  influence  of  the  coffee-houses  had  been 
constantly  increasing.  Foreigners  remarked  that  the  coffee- 
house was  that  which  especially  distinguished  London  from 

35 all  other  cities;  that  the  coffee-house  was  the  Londoner's 
home,  and  that  those  who  wished  to  find  a  gentleman 
commonly  asked,  not  whether  he  lived  in  Fleet  Street  or 
Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he  frequented  the  Grecian  or 
the  Rainbow,     Nobody  was  excluded  from  these  places  who 

40  laid  down  his  penny  at  the  bar. 

Yet  every  rank  and  profession,  and  every  shade  of  reli- 
gious and  political  opinion,  had  its  own  headquarters. 
There  were  houses  near  Saint  James's  Park  where  fops  con- 
gregated, their  heads  and  shoulders  covered  with  black  or 

45  flaxen  wigs,  not  less  ample  than  those  which  are  worn  by 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  329 

the  Chancellor  and  by  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  wig  came  from  Paris ;  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the 
fine  gentleman's  ornaments,  his  embroidered  coat,  his  fringed 
gloves,  and  the  tassels  which  upheld  his  pantaloons.  The 
conversation  was  in  that  dialect  which,  long  after  it  had  50 
ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fashionable  circles,  continued,  in  the 
mouth  of  Lord  Foppington,  to  excite  the  mirth  of  theatres. 
The  atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco 
in  any  other  form  than  that  of  richly  scented  snuff  was  held 
in  abomination.  If  any  clown,  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  the  55 
house,  called  for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  of  the  whole  assembly 
and  the  short  answers  of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him 
that  he  had  better  go  somewhere  else. 

Nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  had  far  to  go.  For,  in 
general,  the  coffee-rooms  reeked  with  tobacco  like  a  guard-  60 
room;  and  strangers  sometimes  expressed  their  surprise 
that  so  many  people  Should  leave  their  own  firesides  to  sit 
in  the  midst  of  eternal  fog  and  stench.  Nowhere  was  the 
smoking  more  constant  than  at  Will's.  That  celebrated 
house  situated  between  Covent  Garden  and.  Bow  Street,  65 
was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the  talk  was  about 
poetical  justice  and  the  unities  of  place  and  time.  There 
was  a  faction  for  Perrault  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for 
Boileau  and  the  ancients.  One  group  debated  whether 
Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to  have  been  in  rhyme.  To  another  70 
an  envious  poetaster  demonstrated  that  Venice  Preserved 
ought  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Under  no  roof 
was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be  seen.  There  were  Earls 
in  stars  and  garters,  clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  pert 
Templars,  sheepish  lads  from  the  Universities,  translators  75 
and  index-makers  in  ragged  coats  of  frieze.  The  great  press 
was  to  get  near  the  chair  where  John  Dryden  sat.  In  winter 
that  chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook  by  the  fire; 
in  summer  it  stood  in  the  balcony.     To  bow  to  the  Laureate, 


330  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

80  and  to  hear  his  opinion  of  Racine's  last  tragedy  or  of  Bossu's 
treatise  on  epic  poetry,  was  thought  a  privilege.  A  pinch 
from  his  snuff-box  was  an  honour  sufficient  to  turn  the  head 
of  a  young  enthusiast. 

There  were  coffee-houses  where  the  first  medical  men  might 

85  be  consulted.  Dr.  John  Radchffe,  who,  in  the  year  1685, 
rose  to  the  largest  practice  in  London,  came  daily,  at  the 
hour  when  the  Exchange  was  full,  from  his  house  in  Bow 
Street,  then  a  fashionable  part  of  the  capital,  to  Garraway's, 
and  was  to  be  found,  surrounded  by  surgeons  and  apothe- 

^0  caries,  at  a  particular  table.  There  were  Puritan  coffee- 
houses where  no  oath  was  heard,  and  where  lank-haired 
men  discussed  election  and  reprobation  through  their  noses ; 
Jew  coffee-houses  where  dark-eyed  money  changers  from 
Venice  and  from  Amsterdam  greeted  each  other ;  and  popish 

©5  coffee-houses  where,  as  good  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits 
planned,  over  their  cups,  another  great  fire,  and  cast  silver 
bullets  to  shoot  the  King. 

The  Battle  of  Ivry 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre  I 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the  dance ; 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  O  pleasant  land  of 
France ! 
5  And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  oiu"  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy ; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war ! 
10  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day. 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array ; 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  331 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears ; 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land ;         15 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand ; 

And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war. 

To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre.  20 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  drest ; 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 

He  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye ! 

He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smil'd  on  us,  as  roU'd  from  wing  to  wing,  25 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout :    "God  save  our   lord,  the 

King!" 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may. 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst  the  ranks  of  war. 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre."  30 

Hurrah !  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin. 

The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St.  Andre's  plain. 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  hps  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France,  35 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies,  —  upon  them  \Ndth  the  lance ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star. 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre.  40 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours.     Mayenne  hath  turned  his 

rein; 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter;  the  Flemish  count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  cloilds  before  a  Biscay  gale ; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,*  and  cloven  mail. 


332  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

45  And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van, 

"Remember  Saint  Bartholomew!"  was  passed  from  man  to  man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe : 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go." 
Oh !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 

60  As  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France  to-day ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 

And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white. 
55  Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 

Up  with  it  high ;  unfurl  it  wide ;  that  all  the  host  may  know 
,     How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  wliich  wrought  His  Church 
such  woe. 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  point  of 
war, 
60  Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho  I  maidens  of  Vienna ;  ho !  matrons  of  Lucerne ; 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return. 

Ho  1  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 
souls. 
65  Ho  I  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright ; 

Ho !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night ; 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised    the 
slave. 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are ; 
70  And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  333 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 


James  Boswell 
{From  essay  on  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson) 

We  have  next  a  word  to  say  of  James  Boswell.  Boswell 
has  already  been  much  commented  upon ;  but  rather  in  the 
way  of  censure  and  vituperation  than  of  true  recognition. 
He  was  a  man  that  brought  himself  much  before  the  world ; 
confessed  that  he  eagerly  coveted  fame,  or,  if  that  were  not  5 
possible,  notoriety;  of  which  latter  as  he  gained  far  more 
than  seemed  his  due,  the  public  were  incited,  not  only  by 
their  natural  love  of  scandal,  but  by  a  special  ground  of 
envy,  to  say  whatever  ill  of  him  could  be  said.  Out  of  the 
fifteen  milhons  that  then  lived,  and  had  bed  and  board,  in  10 
the  British  Islands,  this  man  has  provided  us  a  greater 
pleasure  than  any  other  individual  at  whose  cost  we  now 
enjoy  ourselves ;  perhaps  has  done  us  a  greater  service  than 
can  be  specially  attributed  to  more  than  two  or  three :  yet, 
ungrateful  that  we  are,  no  written  or  spoken  eulogy  of  James  15 
Boswell  anywhere  exists;  his  recompense  in  solid  pudding 
(so  far  as  copyright  went)  was  not  excessive ;  and  as  for  the 
empty  praise,  it  has  altogether  been  denied  him.  Men  are 
unwiser  than  children;  they  do  not  know  the  hand  that 
feeds  them.  20 

Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad  qualities  lay  open 
to  the  general  eye;  visible,  palpable  to  the  dullest.  His 
good  qualities,  again,  belonged  not  to  the  Time  he  lived  in ; 
were  far  from  common  then ;  indeed,  in  such  a  degree,  were 
almost  unexampled ;  not  recognizable  therefore  by  every  25 
one;  nay,  apt  even  (so  strange  had  they  grown)  to  be  con- 
founded with  the  very  \^ces  they  lay  contiguous  to,  and  had 
sprung  out  of.  That  he  was  a  wine-bibber  and  gross  liver; 
gluttonously  fond  of  whatever  would  yield  him  a  little  solace- 
ment,  were  it  only  of  a  stomachic  character,  is  undeniable  30 


334  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

enough.  That  he  was  vain,  heedless,  a  babbler ;  had  much  of 
the  sycophant,  alternating  with  the  braggadocio,  curiously 
spiced  too  with  an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb; 
that  he  gloried  much  when  the  Tailor,  by  a  court-suit,  had 

35  made  a  new  man  of  him ;  that  he  appeared  at  the  Shake- 
speare Jubilee  with  a  riband,  imprinted  "  Corsica  Boswell," 
round  his  hat ;  and  in  short,  if  you  will,  lived  no  day  of  his 
life  without  doing  and  saying  more  than  one  pretentious 
ineptitude :  all  this  unhappily  is  evident  as  the  sun  at  noon. 

40  The  very  look  of  Boswell  seems  to  have  signified  so  much. 
In  that  cocked  nose,  cocked  partly  in  triumph  over  his  weaker 
fellow-creatures,  partly  to  snuff -up  the  smell  of  coming  pleas- 
ure, and  scent  it  from  afar;  in  those  bag-cheeks,  hanging 
like  half-filled  wine-skins,  still  able  to  contain  more ;   in  that 

45  coarsely  protruded  shelf -mouth,  that  fat  dewlapped  chin ; 
in  all  this,  who  sees  not  sensuality,  pretension,  boisterous 
imbecility  enough;  much  that  could  not  have  been  orna- 
mental in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's  overfed  great  man 
(what  the  Scotch  name  flunky),  though  it  had  been  more 

50 natural  there?  The  under  part  of  Boswell's  face  is  of  a 
low,  almost  brutish  character. 

Unfortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  what  great  and  genuine 
good  lay  in  him  was  nowise  so  self-evident.  That  Boswell 
was  a  hunter  after  spiritual  Notabilities,  that  he  loved  such, 

55  and  longed,  and  even  crept  and  crawled,  to  be  near  them ; 
that  he  first  (in  old  Touchwood  Auchinleck's  phraseology) 
"  took  on  with  Paoli "  ;  and  then  being  off  with  "  the  Corsican 
lanlouper,"  took  on  with  a  schoolmaster,  "ane  that  keeped 
a  schule,  and  ca'd  it  an  academy"  :  that  he  did  all  this,  and 

60  could  not  help  doing  it,  we  account  a  Very  singular  merit. 
The  man,  once  for  all,  had  an  "open  sense,"  an  open  loving 
heart,  which  so  few  have :  where  Excellence  existed,  he  was 
compelled  to  acknowledge  it;  was  drawn  towards  it,  and 
(let  the  old  sulphur-brand  of  a  Laird  say  what  he  liked) 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  335 

could  not  but  walk  with  it,  —  if  not  as  superior,  if  not  as  65 
equal,  then  as  inferior  and  lackey ;   better  so  than  not  at  all. 

If  we  reflect  now  that  this  love  of  Excellence  had  not  only 
such  an  evil  nature  to  triumph  over ;  but  also  what  an  educa- 
tion and  social  position  withstood  it  and  weighed  it  down,  its 
innate  strength,  victorious  over  all  these  things,  may  aston-  70 
ish  us.  Consider  what  an  inward  impulse  there  must  have 
been,  how  many  mountains  of  impediment  huried  aside, 
before  the  Scottish  Laird  could,  as  humble  servant,  embrace 
the  knees  (the  bosom  was  not  permitted  him)  of  the  English 
Dominie !  "  Your  Scottish  Laird,"  says  an  English  naturalist  75 
of  these  days,  "may  be  defined  as  the  hungriest  and  vainest 
of  all  bipeds  yet  known."  Boswell  too  was  a  Tory;  of 
quite  peculiarly  feudal,  genealogical,  pragmatical  temper; 
had  been  nurtured  in  an  atmosphere  of  Heraldry,  at  the  feet 
of  a  very  Gamaliel  in  that  kind ;  within  bare  walls,  adorned  80 
only  with  pedigrees ;  amid  serving-men  in  threadbare  livery : 
all  things  teaching  him,  from  birth  upwards,  to  remember 
that  a  Laird  was  a  Laird.  Perhaps  there  was  a  special 
vanity  in  his  very  blood  :  old  Auchinleck  had,  if  not  the  gay, 
tail-spreading,  peacock  vanity  of  his  son,  no  little  of  the  85 
slow-stalking,  contentious,  hissing  vanity  of  the  gander; 
a  still  more  fatal  species.  Scottish  Advocates  will  yet  tell 
you  how  the  ancient  man,  having  chanced  to  be  the  first 
sheriff  appointed  (after  the  abolition  of  "hereditary  juris- 
diction") by  royal  authority,  was  wont,  in  dull-snuffing,  90 
pompous  tone,  to  preface  many  a  deliverance  from  the  bench 
with  these  words  :   "  I,  the  first  King's  Sheriff  in  Scotland,  — " 

And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  prepossessed  and 
held  back  by  nature  and  by  art,  fly  nevertheless  like  iron  to 
its  magnet,  whither  his  better  genius  called !  You  may  95 
surround  the  iron  and  the  magnet  with  what  enclosures  and 
encumbrances  you  please,  —  with  wood,  with  rubbish,  with 
brass :   it  matters  not,  the  two  fell  each  other,  they  struggle 


336  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

restlessly  towards  each  other,  they  will  be  together.     The 

100  iron  may  be  a  Scottish  squirelet,  full  of  gulosity  and  "gig- 
manity ; "  ^  the  magnet  an  English  plebeian,  and  moving  rag- 
and-dust  mountain,  coarse,  proud,  irascible,  imperious : 
nevertheless,  behold  how  they  embrace,  and  inseparably 
cleave  to  one  another !     It  is  one  of  the  strangest  phenomena 

105  of  the  past  century,  that  at  a  time  when  the  old  reverent 
feeling  of  Discipleship  (such  as  brought  men  from  far  coun- 
tries, with  rich  gifts  and  prostrate  soul,  to  the  feet  of  the 
Prophets)  had  passed  utterly  away  from  men's  practical 
experience,  and  was  no  longer  surmised  to  exist  (as  it  does), 

110  perennial,  indestructible,  in  man's  inmost  heart, — James 
Boswell  should  have  been  the  individual,  of  all  others, 
predestined  to  recall  it,  in  such  singular  guise,  to  the  wonder- 
ing, and,  for  a  long  while,  laughing  and  unrecognizing  world. 
It  has  been  commonly  said,  "  The  man's  vulgar  vanity  was 

115 all  that  attached  him  to  Johnson;  he  delighted  to  be  seen 
near  him,  to  be  thought  connected  with  him."  Now  let  it 
be  at  once  granted  that  no  consideration  springing  oift  of 
vulgar  vanity  could  well  be  absent  from  the  mind  of  James 
Boswell,  in  this  his  intercourse  with  Johnson,  or  in  any  con- 

120  siderable  transaction  of  his  life.  At  the  same  time,  ask  your- 
self:  Whether  such  vanity,  and  nothing  else,  actuated  him 
therein ;  whether  this  was  the  true  essence  and  moving  prin- 
ciple of  the  phenomenon,  or  not  rather  its  outward  vesture, 
and  the  accidental  environment  (and  defacement)  in  which 

125  it  came  to  light  ?  The  man  was,  by  nature  and  habit,  vain ; 
a  sycophant-coxcomb,  be  it  granted :  but  had  there  been 
nothing  more  than  vanity  in  him,  was  Samuel  Johnson  the 
man  of  men  to  whom  he  must  attach  himself? 


^  Q.  "What  do  you  mean  by  'respectable'?  —  A.  He  always  kept 
a  gig."  (ThurteU's  Trial.)  —  "Thus,"  it  has  been  said,  "does  society 
naturally  divide  itself  into  four  classes  :  Noblemen,  Gentlemen,  Gigmen, 
and  Men."     [Carlyle's  note.] 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  337 

At    the    date  when  Johnson  was   a  poor  rusty-coated 
"scholar,"  dweUing  in  Temple-lane,  and  indeed  throughout  130 
their  whole  intercourse  afterwards,  were  there  not  chancellors 
and  prime  ministers  enough ;  graceful  gentle  men,  the  glass  of 
fashion ;    honor-giving  noblemen ;    dinner-giving  rich  men ; 
renowned  fire-eaters,  swordsmen,  gownsmen ;    Quacks  and 
Realities  of  all  hues,  —  any  one  of  whom  bulked  much  larger  135 
in  the  world's  eye  than  Johnson  ever  did  ?     To  any  one  of 
whom  by  half  that  submissiveness  and  assiduity,  our  Bozzy 
might  have  recommended  himself ;  and  sat  there,  the  envy  of 
surrounding  lickspittles ;    pocketing  now  solid  emolument, 
swallowing  now  well-cooked  viands  and  wines  of  rich  vintage ;  140 
in  each  case,   also,  shone-on  by  some  glittering  reflex  of 
Renown  or  Notoriety,  so  as  to  be  the  observed  of  innumerable 
observers.     To  no  one  of  whom,  however,  though  otherwise 
a  most  diligent  solicitor  and  purveyor,  did  he  so  ^ttach  him- 
self :  such  vulgar  courtierships  were  his  paid  drudgery,  or  145 
leisure  amusement;    the  woii^ship  of  Johnson  was  his  grand, 
ideal,    voluntary   business.     Does    not   the   frothy-hearted, 
yet  enthusiastic  man,  doffing  his  Advocate's-wig,  regularly 
take  post,  and  hurry  up  to  London,  for  the  sake  of  his  Sage 
chiefly ;    as  to  a  Feast  of  Tabernacles,  the  Sabbath  of  his  150 
whole  year  ?     The  plate-licker  and  wine-bibber  dives  into  Bolt 
Court,  to  sip  muddy  coffee  with  a  cynical  old  man,  and  a 
sour-tempered  blind  old  woman  (feeling  the  cups,  whether 
they  are  full,  with  her  finger) ;    and  patiently  endures  con- 
tradictions without  end ;  too  happy  so  he  may  but  be  allowed  155 
to  listen  and  live.     Nay,  it  does  not  appear  that  vulgar  vanity 
could  ever  have  been  much  flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to 
Johnson. 

Mr.  Croker  says,  Johnson  was  to  the  last  little  regarded 
by  the  great  world ;    from  which,  for  a  vulgar  vanity,  all  160 
honor,  as  from  its  fountain,  descends.     Bozzy,  even  among 
Johnson's  friends  and  special  admirers,  seems  rather  to  have 


338  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

been  laughed  at  than  envied :  his  officious,  whisking,  con- 
sequential ways,  the  daily  reproofs  and  rebuffs  he  underwent, 

165  could  gain  from  the  world  no  golden,  but  only  leaden  opinions. 
His  devout  Discipleship  seemed  nothing  more  than  a  mean 
Spanielship,  in  the  general  eye.  His  mighty  "constellation," 
or  sun,  round  whom  he,  as  satellite,  observantly  gyrated, 
was,  for  the  mass  of  men,  but  a  huge  ill-snuffed  tallow-light, 

170  and  he  a  weak  night-moth,  circling  foolishly,  dangerously 
about  it,  not  knowing  what  he  wanted.  If  he  enjoyed  High- 
land dinners  and  toasts,  as  henchman  to  a  new  sort  of 
chieftain,  Henry  Erskine,  in  the  domestic  "Outer-House," 
could  hand  him  a  shilling  "for  the   sight  of   his    Bear." 

175  Doubtless  the  man  was  laughed  at,  and  often  heard  himself 
laughed  at  for  his  Johnsonism.  To  be  envied  is  the  grand 
and  sole  aim  of  vulgar  vanity ;  to  be  filled  with  good  things 
is  that  of  .sensuality :  for  Johnson  perhaps  no  man  living 
envied  poor  Bozzy ;    and  of  good  things  (except  himself  paid 

180  for  them)  there  was  no  vestige  in  that  acquaintanceship. 
Had  nothing  other  or  better  than  vanity  and  sensuality  been 
there,  Johnson  and  Boswell  had  never  come  together,  or 
had  soon  and  finally  separated  again. 

Robert  Btims 
(From  Heroes  and  Hero-Worship :  "  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters  ") 

Once  more  we  have  to  say  here,  that  the  chief  quality  of 
Burns  is  the  sincerity  of  him.  So  in  his  Poetry,  so  in  his 
Life.  The  Song  he  sings  is  not  of  fantasticalities ;  it  is  of  a 
thing  felt,  really  there ;  the  prime  merit  of  this,  as  of  all  in 
5  him,  and  of  his  Life  generally,  is  truth.  The  Life  of  Burns  is 
what  we  may  call  a  great  tragic  sincerity.  A  sort  of  savage 
sincerity,  —  not  cruel,  far  from  that ;  but  wild,  wrestling 
naked  with  the  truth  of  things.  In  that  sense,  there  is 
something  of  the  savage  in  all  great  men. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  339 

Hero-worship,  —  Odin,    Burns  ?     Well ;     these    Men    of  lo 
Letters  too  were  not  without  a  kind  of  Hero-worship :   but 
what   a   strange   condition   has   that   got   into   now !     The 
waiters  and  ostlers  of  Scotch  inns,  prying  about  the  door, 
eager  to  catch  any  word  that  fell  from  Burns,  were  doing 
unconscious  reverence  to  the  Heroic.     Johnson  had  his  Bos- 15 
well    for    worshiper.     Rousseau    had    worshipers    enough; 
princes  calling  on  him  in  his  mean  garret ;    the  great,  the 
beautiful,   doing  reverence  to  the  poor  moonstruck  man. 
For  himself  a  most  portentous  contradiction;    the  two  ends 
of  his  life  not  to  be  brought  into  harmony.     He  sits  at  the  20 
tables  of  grandees ;  and  has  to  copy  music  for  his  own  living. 
He  cannot  even  get  his  music  copied.     "  By  dint  of  dining 
out,"  says  he,  "I  run  the  risk  of  dying  by  starvation  at 
home."     For  his  worshipers  too  a  most  questionable  thing! 
If  doing  Hero-worship  well  or  badly  be  the  test  of  vital  well-  25 
being  or  illbeing  to  a  generation,  can   we   say  that  these 
generations  are  very  first-rate  ?  —  And  yet  our  heroic  Men  of 
Letters  do  teach,  govern,  are  kings,  priests,  or  what  you  like 
to  call  them;    intrinsically  there  is  no  preventing  it  by  any 
means  whatever.     The  world  has  to  obey  him  who  thinks  30 
and  sees  in  the  world.     The  world  can  alter  the  manner 
of  that;    can  either  have  it  as  blessed  continuous  summer 
sunshine,  or  as  unblessed  black  thunder  and  tornado,  —  with 
unspeakable  difference  of  profit  for  the  world  !     The  manner 
of  it  is  very  alterable ;   the  matter  and  fact  of  it  is  not  alter-  35 
able  by  any  power  under  the  sky.     Light;    or,  failing  that, 
lightning :   the  world  can  take  its  choice.     Not  whether  we 
call  an  Odin  god,  prophet,  priest,  or  what  we  call  him ;   but 
whether  we  believe  the  word  he  tells  us :    there  it  all  lies. 
If  it  be  a  true  word,  we  shall  have  to  believe  it ;   believing  it,  40 
we  shall  have  to  do  it.     What  name  or  welcome  we  give  him 
or  it,  is  a  point  that  concerns   ourselves   mainly.     It,  the 
new  Truth,  new  deeper  revealing  of  the  Secret  of  this  Uni- 


340  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

verse,  is  verily  of  the  nature  of  a  message  from  on  high; 

45  and  must  and  will  have  itself  obeyed.  — 

My  last  remark  is  on  that  notablest  phasis  of  Burns's 
history,  —  his  visit  to  Edinburgh.  Often  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  his  demeanor  there  were  the  highest  proof  he  gave  of  what 
a  fund  of  worth  and  genuine  manhood  was  in  him.     If  we 

50  think  of  it,  few  heavier  burdens  could  be  laid  on  the  strength 
of  a  man.  So  sudden;  all  common  Lionism,  which  ruins 
innumerable  men,  was  as  nothing  to  this.  It  is  as  if  Napoleon 
had  been  made  a  King  of,  not  gradually,  but  at  once  from  the 
Artillery  Lieutenancy  in  the  Regiment   La    Fere.     Burns, 

55  still  only  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  is  no  longer  even  a 
plowman ;  he  is  flying  to  the  West  Indies  to  escape  disgrace 
and  a  jail.  This  month  he  is  a  ruined  peasant,  his  wages 
seven  pounds  a  year,  and  these  gone  from  him  :  next  month 
he  is  in  the  blaze  of  rank  and  beauty,  handing  down  jeweled 

60  Duchesses  to  dinner ;  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes  !  Adversity 
is  sometimes  hard  upon  a  man ;  but  for  one  man  who  can 
stand  prosperity,  there  are  a  hundred  that  will  stand  ad- 
versity. 

I  admire  much  the  way  in  which   Burns   met   all    this. 

65  Perhaps  no  man  one  could  point  out  was  ever  so  sorely  tried, 
and  so  little  forgot  himself.  Tranquil,  unastonished ;  not 
abashed,  not  inflated,  neither  awkwardness  nor  affectation : 
he  feels  that  he  there  is  the  man  Robert  Burns ;  that  the 
"rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp;"    that  the  celebrity  is  but 

70  the  candle-light  which  will  show  what  man,  not  in  the  least 
make  him  a  better  or  other  man !  Alas,  it  may  readily, 
unless  he  look  to  it,  make  him  a  worse  man ;  a  wretched  in- 
flated windbag,  —  inflated  till  he  hurst,  and  become  a  dead 
lion  ;  for  whom,  as  some  one  has  said,  "  there  is  no  resurrection 

75  of  the  body" ;  worse  than  a  living  dog !  —  Burns  is  admirable 
here. 

And  yet,  alas,  as  I  have  observed  elsewhere,  these  Lion- 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  341 

hunters  were  the  ruin  and  death  of  Burns.  It  was  they  that 
rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  Hve  !  They  gathered  round 
him  in  his  Farm ;  hindered  his  industry ;  no  place  was  remote  80 
enough  from  them.  He  could  not  get  his  Lionism  forgotten, 
honestly  as  he  was  disposed  to  do  so.  He  falls  into  dis- 
contents, into  miseries,  faults ;  the  world  getting  ever  more 
desolate  for  him ;  health,  character,  peace  of  mind  all  gone ; 
—  solitary  enough  now.  It  is  tragical  to  think  of !  These  85 
men  came  but  to  see  him ;  it  was  out  of  no  sympathy  with 
him,  nor  no  hatred  to  him.  They  came  to  get  a  little  amuse- 
ment :  they  got  their  amusement ;  —  and  the  Hero's  life 
went  for  it ! 


A  Definition  of  History 

{From  essay  on  History) 

Under  a  limited,  and  the  only  practicable  shape.  History 
proper,  that  part  of  History  which  treats  of  remarkable  action, 
has,  in  all  modern  as  well  as  ancient  times,  ranked  among  the 
highest  arts;  and  perhaps  never  stood  higher  than  in  these 
times  of  ours.  For  whereas,  of  old,  the  charm  of  History  5 
lay  chiefly  in  gratifying  our  common  appetite  for  the  wonder- 
ful, for  the  unknown,  and  her  office  was  but  as  that  of  a 
Minstrel  and  Storyteller,  she  has  now  farther  become  a 
Schoolmistress,  and  professes  to  instruct  in  gratifying. 
Whether,  with  the  stateliness  of  that  venerable  character,  10 
she  may  not  have  taken  up  something  of  its  austerity  and 
frigidity;  whether,  in  the  logical  terseness  of  a  Hume  or 
Robertson,  the  graceful  ease  and  gay  pictorial  heartiness 
of  a  Herodotus  or  Froissart  may  not  be  wanting,  is  not  the 
question  for  us  here.  Enough  that  all  learners,  all  inquiring  15 
minds  of  every  order,  are  gathered  round  her  footstool, 
and  reverently  pondering  her  lessons,  as  the  true  basis  of 
Wisdom.     Poetry,  Divinity,    Politics,    Physics,    have    each 


342  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

their  adherents  and  adversaries;   each  little  guild  support- 

2oing  a  defensive  and  offensive  war  for  its  own  special  do- 
main ;  while  the  domain  of  History  is  as  a  Free  Emporium, 
where  all  these  belligerents  peaceably  meet  and  furnish  them- 
selves; and  Sentimentalist  and  Utilitarian,  Sceptic  and 
Theologian,  with  one  voice  advise  us  :  Examine  History,  for 

25 it  is  "Philosophy  teaching  by  Experience." 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  disparage  such  teaching,  the  very 
attempt  at  which  must  be  precious.  Neither  shall  we  too 
rigidly  inquire :  How  much  it  has  hitherto  profited  ? 
Whether  most  of  what  little  practical  wisdom  men  have,  has 

30  come  from  study  of  professed  History,  or  from  other  less 
boasted  sources;  whereby,  as  matters  now  stand,  a  Marl- 
borough may  become  great  in  the  world's  business,  with  no 
History  save  what  he  derives  from  Shakspear's  Plays  ?  Nay, 
whether  in  that  same  teaching  by  Experience,   historical 

35  Philosophy  has  yet  properly  deciphered  the  first  element  of 
all  science  in  this  kind :  What  the  aim  and  significance  of 
that  wondrous  changeful  Life  it  investigates  and  paints  may 
be?  Whence  the  course  of  man's  destinies  in  this  Earth 
originated,  and  whither  they  are  tending  ?     Or,  indeed,  if 

40  they  have  any  course  and  tendency,  are  really  guided  for- 
ward by  an  unseen  mysterious  Wisdom,  or  only  circle  in  blind 
mazes  without  recognizable  guidance?  Which  questions, 
altogether  fundamental,  one  might  think,  in  any  Philosophy 
of  History,  have,  since  the  era  when  Monkish  Annalists  were 

45  wont  to  answer  them  by  the  long-ago  extinguished  light  of 
their  Missal  and  Breviary,  been  by  most  philosophical 
Historians  only  glanced  at  dubiously  and  from  afar;  by 
many,  not  so  much  as  glanced  at. 

The  truth  is,  two  difficulties,  never  wholly  surmountable, 

50  lie  in  the  way.  Before  Philosophy  can  teach  by  Experience, 
the  Philosophy  has  to  be  in  readiness,  the  Experience  must 
be  gathered  and  intelligibly  recorded.     Now,   overlooking 


CHARLES  DICKENS  343 

the  former  consideration,  and  with  regard  only  to  the  latter, 
let  any  one  who  has  examined  the  current  of  human  affairs, 
and  how  intricate,  perplexed,  unfathomable,  even  when  65 
seen  into  with  our  own  eyes,  are  their  thousandfold  blending 
movements,  say  whether  the  true  representing  of  it  is  easy 
or  impossible.  Social  Life  is  the  aggregate  of  all  the  indi- 
vidual men's  Lives  who  constitute  society;  History  is  the 
essence  of  innumerable  Biographies.  But  if  one  Biography,  60 
nay,  our  own  Biography,  study  and  recapitulate  it  as  we  may, 
remains  in  so  many  points  unintelligible  to  us,  how  much 
more  must  these  million;  the  very  facts  of  which,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  purport  of  them,  we  know  not,  and  cannot 
know  I  66 

CHARLES    DICKENS 
Preface  to  "Oliver  Twist" 

Once  upon  a  time  it  was  held  to  be  a  coarse  and  shocking 
circumstance,  that  some  of  the  characters  in  these  pages 
are  chosen  from  the  most  criminal  and  degraded  of  London's 
population. 

As  I  saw  no  reason,  when  I  wrote  this  book,  why  the  5 
dregs  of  life  (so  long  as  their  speech  did  not  offend  the  ear) 
should  not  serve  the  purpose  of  a  moral,  as  well  as  its  froth 
and  cream,  I  made  bold  to  believe  that  this  same  Once  upon 
a  time  would  not  prove  to  be  All-time  or  even  a  long  time. 
I  saw  many  strong  reasons  for  pursuing  my  course.     I  had  10 
read  of  thieves  by  scores ;    seductive  fellows   (amiable  for 
the  most  part),  faultless  in  dress,  plump  in  pocket,  choice 
in  horse-flesh,  bold  in  bearing,  fortunate  in  gallantry,  great 
at  a  song,  a  bottle,  pack  of  cards  or  dice-box,  and  fit  com- 
panions for  the  bravest.     But  I  had  never  met  (except  in  15 
Hogarth)  with  the  miserable  reality.     It  appeared  to  me 
that  to  draw  a  knot  of  such  associates  in  crime  as  really 


344  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

did  exist;  to  paint  them  in  all  their  deformity,  in  all  their 
wretchedness,  in  all  the  squalid  misery  of  their  lives ;  to  show 

20  them  as  they  really  were,  for  ever  skulking  uneasily  through 
the  dirtiest  paths  of  life,  with  the  great  black  ghastly  gallows 
closing  up  their  prospect,  turn  them  where  they  might; 
it  appeared  to  me  that  to  do  this,  would  be  to  attempt  a 
something  which  was  needed,  and  which  would  be  a  service 

25  to  society.     And  I  did  it  as  I  best  could. 


What  manner  of  life  is  that  which  is  described  in  these 
pages,  as  the  everyday  existence  of  a  Thief?  What  charms 
has  it  for  the  young  and  ill-disposed,  what  allurements  for 
the  most  jolter-headed  of  juveniles?     Here  are  no  canter- 

soings  on  moonlit  heaths,  no  merrymakings  in  the  snuggest 
of  all  possible  caverns,  none  of  the  attractions  of  dress,  no 
embroidery,  no  lace,  no  jack-boots,  no  crimson  coats  and 
ruffles,  none  of  the  dash  and  freedom  with  which  "the  road" 
has  been  time  out  of  mind  invested.     The  cold  wet  shelter- 

35  less  midnight  streets  of  London ;  the  foul  and  frowsy  dens, 
where  vice  is  closely  packed  and  lacks  the  room  to  turn; 
the  haunts  of  hunger  and  disease;  the  shabby  rags  that 
scarcely  hold  together;  where  are  the  attractions  of  these 
things  ? 

40  There  are  people,  however,  of  so  refined  and  delicate  a 
nature,  that  they  cannot  bear  the  contemplation  of  such 
horrors.  Not  that  they  turn  instinctively  from  crime; 
but  that  criminal  characters,  to  suit  them,  must  be,  like  their 
meat,   in  delicate  disguise.     A  Massaroni   in  green  velvet 

45 is  an  enchanting  creature;  but  a  Sikes  in  fustian  is  insup- 
portable. A  Mrs.  Massaroni,  being  a  lady  in  short  petti- 
coats and  a  fancy  dress,  is  a  thing  to  imitate  in  tableaux 
and  have  in  lithograph  on  pretty  songs ;  but  a  Nancy, 
being  a  creature  in  a  cotton  gown  and  cheap  shawl,  is  not 


CHARLES  DICKENS  345 

to  be  thought  of.     It  is  wonderful  how  Virtue  turns  from  50 
dirty  stockings ;    and  how  Vice,  married  to  ribbons  and  a 
httle  gay  attire,  changes  her  name,  as  wedded  ladies  do, 
and  becomes  Romance. 

But  as  the  stern  truth,  even  in  the  dress  of  this  (in  novels) 
much  exalted  race,  was  a  part  of  the  purpose  of  this  book,  55 
I  did  not,  for  these  readers,  abate  one  hole  in  the  Dodger's 
coat,  or  one  scrap  of  curl-paper  in  Nancy's  dishevelled  hair. 
I  had  no  faith  in  the  delicacy  which  could  not  bear  to  look 
upon  them.  I  had  no  desire  to  make  proselytes  among 
such  people.  I  had  no  respect  for  their  opinion,  good  or  60 
bad ;  did  not  covet  their  approval ;  and  did  not  write  for 
their  amusement. 

It  has  been  observed  of  Nancy  that  her  devotion  to  the 
brutal  house-breaker  does  not  seem  natural.     And  it  has 
been  objected  to  Sikes  in  the  same  breath  —  with  some  in-  65 
consistency,  as  I  venture  to  think  —  that  he  is  surely  over- 
drawn, because  in  him  there  would  appear  to  be  none  of  those 
redeeming  traits  which  are  objected  to  as  unnatural  in  his 
mistress.     Of   the   latter   objection   I   will   merely   remark,  * 
that  I  fear  there  are  in  the  world  some  insensible  and  callous  70 
natures,    that    do    become    utterly    and    incurably    bad. 
Whether  this  be  so  or  not,  of  one  thing  I  am  certain :   that 
there  are  such  men  as  Sikes,  who,  being  closely  followed 
through  the  same  space  of  time  and  through  the  same  cur- 
rent of  circumstances,  would  not  give,  by  the  action  of  a  75 
moment,  the  faintest  indication  of  a  better  nature.     Whether 
every  gentler  human  feeling  is  dead  within  such  bosoms, 
or  the  proper  chord  to  strike  has  rusted  and  is  hard  to  find, 
I  do  not  pretend  to  know ;    but  that  the  fact  is  as  I  state  it, 
I  am  sure.  80 

It  is  useless  to  discuss  whether  the  conduct  and  character 
of  the  girl  seems  natural  or  unnatural,  probable  or  im- 
probable, right  or  wrong.     If  is  true.     Every  man  who  has 


346  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

watched  these  melancholy  shades  of  life,  must  know  it  to 
85  be  so.     From  the  first  introduction  of  that  poor  wretch,  to 
her  laying  her  bloodstained  head  upon  the  robber's  breast, 
there  is  not  a  word  exaggerated  or  overwrought.     It  is  em- 
phatically God's  truth,  for  it  is  the  truth  He  leaves  in  such 
depraved   and   miserable   breasts ;    the  hope  yet  lingering 
90  there ;   the  last  fair  drop  of  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  weed- 
choked  well.     It  involves  the  best  and  worst  shades  of  our 
nature ;   much  of  its  ugliest  hues,  and  something  of  its  most 
beautiful;  it  is  a  contradiction,  an  anomaly,  an  apparent 
impossibility;    but  it  is  a  truth.     I  am  glad  to  have  had 
95  it  doubted,  for  in  that  circumstance  I  should  find  a  sufficient 
assurance  (if  I  wanted  any)  that  it  needed  to  be  told. 

In  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  fifty,  it  was 
publicly  declared  in  London  by  an  amazing  Alderman, 
that  Jacob's  Island  did  not  exist,  and  never  had  existed. 
100  Jacob's  Island  continues  to  exist  (like  an  ill-bred  place  as 
it  is)  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven,  though  improved  and  much  changed. 

Mr.  Micawber 
{From  David  Copperfield,  Chaps.  XI,  XII) 

The  counting-house  clock  was  at  half-past  twelve,  and 

there  was  general  preparation  for  going  to  dinner,   when 

Mr.   Quinion   tapped   at   the  counting-house  window,   and 

beckoned  to  me  to  go  in.     I  went  in,  and  found  there  a 

5stoutish,  middle-aged  person,  in  a  brown  surtout  and  black 

tights  and  shoes,  with  no  more  hair  upon  his  head  (which 

was  a  large  one  and  very  shining)  than  there  is  upon  an  egg, 

and  with  a  very  extensive  face,  which  he  turned  full  upon 

•me.     His   clothes  were  shabby,   but  he  had   an  imposing 

10  shirt-collar  on.     He  carried  a  jaunty  sort  of  stick,  with  a 

large  pair  of  rusty  tassels  to  it;   and  a  quizzing-glass  hung 


CHARLES  DICKENS  347 

outside  his  coat,  —  for  ornament,  I  afterwards  found*  as  he 
very  seldom  looked  through  it,  and  couldn't  see  anything 
when  he  did. 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  in  allusion  to  myself,  "is  he."  15 

"This,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  certain  condescending 
roll  in  his  voice,  and  a  certain  indescribable  air  of  doing 
something  genteel,  which  impressed  me  very  much,  "is 
Master  Copperfield.     I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir?" 

I  said  I  was  very  well,  and  hoped  he  was.     I  was  suf-20 
ficiently  ill  at  ease.  Heaven  knows ;   but  it  was  not  in  my 
nature  to  complain  much  at  that  time  of  my  life,  so  I  said 
I  was  very  well,  and  hoped  he  was. 

"I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  "thank  Heaven,  quite  well. 
I  have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  which  he  25 
mentions  that  he  would  desire  me  to  receive  into  an  apart- 
ment in  the  rear  of  my  house,  which  is  at  present  unoccu- 
pied —  and  is,  in  short,  to  be  let  as  a  —  in  short,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "as  a 
bedroom  —  the  young  beginner  whom  I  have  now  the  pleas-  30 
ure  to  — "  and  the  stranger  waved  his  hand,  and  settled 
his  chin  in  his  shirt-collar. 

"This  is  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  Mr.  Quinion  to  me. 

"Ahem!"  said  the  stranger,  "that  is  my  name." 

"Mr.  Micawber,"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  "is  known  to  Mr. 35 
Murdstone.     He  takes  orders  for  us  on  commission,  when 
he  can  get  any.     He  has  been  written  to  by  Mr.  Murdstone, 
on  the  subject  of  your  lodgings,  and  he  will  receive  you  as 
a  lodger." 

"My  address,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "is  Windsor  Terrace, 40 
City  Road.     I  —  in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the 
same  genteel  air,  and  in  another  burst  of  confidence  —  "I 
live  there." 

I  made  him  a  bow. 

"Under  the  impression,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "that  your 45 


348  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

peregrinations  in  this  metropolis  have  not  as  yet  been  ex- 
tensive, and  that  you  might  have  some  difficulty  in  pen- 
etrating the  arcana  of  the  Modern  Babylon  in  the  direction 
of  the  City  Road  —  in  short,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  another 
50  burst  of  confidence,  "  that  you  might  lose  yourself  —  I 
shall  be  happy  to  call  this  evening,  and  install  you  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  nearest  way." 

I  thanked  him  with  all  my  heart,  for  it  was  friendly  in 
him  to  offer  to  take  that  trouble. 
65      "At  what  hour,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "shall  I—" 
"At  about  eight,"  said  Mr.  Quinion. 
"At  about  eight,"  said  Mr.  Micawber.     "I  beg  to  wish 
you  good  day,  Mr.  Quinion.     I  will  intrude  no  longer." 
So  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  with  his  cane  under 
60  his  arm :    very  upright,  and  humming  a  tune  when  he  was 
clear  of  the  counting-house. 


Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  were  an  addition  to  the  dis- 
tressed state  of  my  mind.  In  my  forlorn  state  I  became 
quite  attached  to  the  family,  and  used  to  walk  about,  busy 

65  with  Mrs.  Micawber's  calculations  of  ways  and  means, 
and  heavy  with  the  weight  of  Mr.  Micawber's  debts.  On  a 
Saturday  night,  which  was  my  grand  treat,  —  partly  because 
it  was  a  great  thing  to  walk  home  with  six  or  seven  shillings 
in  my  pocket,  looking  into  the  shops  and  thinking  what  such 

70  a  sum  would  buy,  and  partly  because  I  went  home  early, 
—  Mrs.  Micawber  would  make  the  most  heart-rending 
confidences  to  me ;  also  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  I  mixed 
the  portion  of  tea  or  coffee  I  had  bought  over-night,  in  a 
little  shaving-pot,  and  sat  late  at  my  breakfast.     It  was 

75  nothing  at  all  unusual  for  Mr.  Micawber  to  sob  violently 
at  the  beginning  of  one  of  these  Saturday  night  conversa- 
tions, and  sing  about  Jack's  delight  being  his  lovely  Nan, 


CHARLES  DICKENS  349 

towards  the  end  of  it.  I  have  known  him  come  home  to 
supper  with  a  flood  of  tears,  and  a  declaration  that  nothing 
was  now  left  but  a  jail;  and  go  to  bed  making  a  calcula-80 
tion  of  the  expense  of  putting  bow-windows  to  the  house, 
"in  case  anything  turned  up,"  which  was  his  favourite  ex- 
pression.    And  Mrs.  Micawber  was  just  the  same. 


"I  shall  never.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
"  revert  to  the  period  when  Mr.  Micawber  was  in  difficulties,  85 
without  thinking  of  you.     Your  conduct  has  always  been 
of  the  most  delicate  and  obliging  description.     You  have 
never  been  a  lodger.     You  have  been  a  friend." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber;  " Copperfield,"  for  so 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  call  me  of  late,  "has  a  heart 90 
to  feel  for  the  distresses  of  his  fellow-creatures  when  they 
are  behind  a  cloud,  and  a  head  to  plan,  and  a  hand  to  — 
in  short,  a  general  ability  to  dispose  of  such  available  prop- 
erty as  could  be  made  away  with." 

I  expressed  my  sense  of  this  commendation,  and  said  1 95 
was  very  sorry  we  were  going  to  lose  one  another. 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "I  am  older 
than  you ;  a  man  of  some  experience  in  life,  and  —  and  of 
some  experience,  in  short,  in  difficulties,  generally  speaking. 
At  present,  and  until  something  turns  up  (which  I  am,  I  lOO 
may  say,  hourly  expecting),  I  have  nothing  to  bestow  but 
advice.  Still  my  advice  is  so  far  worth  taking  that  —  in 
short,  that  I  have  never  taken  it  myself,  and  am  the  "  — 
here  Mr.  Micawber,  who  had  been  beaming  and  smiling, 
all  over  his  head  and  face,  up  to  the  present  moment,  checked  105 
himself  and  frowned  —  "the  miserable  wretch  you  behold." 

"My  dear  Micawber !"  urged  his  wife. 

"  I  say,"  returned  IVIr.  Micawber,  quite  forgetting  himself, 
and  smiling  again,  "the  miserable  wretch  you  behold.     My 


350  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

110  advice  is,   never  do  to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time.     Collar  him ! " 
"My  poor  papa's  maxim,"  Mrs.  Micawber  observed. 
"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "your  papa  was  very 
well  in  his  way,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  disparage 

115  him.  Take  him  for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  shall  —  in  short, 
make  the  acquaintance,  probably,  of  anybody  else  possessing 
at  his  time  of  life,  the  same  legs  for  gaiters,  and  able  to 
read  the  same  description  of  print,  without  spectacles. 
But  he  applied  that  maxim  to  our  marriage,  my  dear;   and 

120  that  was  so  far  prematurely  entered  into,  in  consequence, 
that  I  never  recovered  the  expense." 

Mr.  Micawber  looked  aside  at  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  added  : 
"Not  that  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Quite  the  contrary,  my  love." 
After  which  he  was  grave  for  a  minute  or  so. 

125  "My  other  piece  of  advice,  Copperfield,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  "you  know.  Annual  income  twenty  pounds, 
annual  expenditure  nineteen  nineteen  six,  result  happiness. 
Annual  income  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure  twenty 
pounds   ought   and   six,    result    misery.     The    blossom    is 

130  blighted,  the  leaf  is  withered,  the  God  of  day  goes  down 
upon  the  dreary  scene,  and  —  in  short,  you  are  for  ever 
floored.     As  I  am  !" 

To  make  his  example  the  more  impressive,  Mr.  Micawber 
drank  a  glass  of  punch  with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment  and 

135  satisfaction,  and  whistled  the  College  Hornpipe. 

I  did  not  fail  to  assure  him  that  I  would  store  these  pre- 
cepts in  my  mind,  though  indeed  I  had  no  need  to  do  so, 
for,  at  the  time,  they  affected  me  visibly.  Next  morning  I 
met  the  whole  family  at  the  coach-office,  and  saw  them,  with 

140  a  desolate  heart,  take  their  places  outside,  at  the  back. 

"Master  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "God  bless 
you !  I  never  can  forget  all  that,  you  know,  and  I  never 
would  if  I  could." 


CHARLES  DICKENS  351 

"Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "farewell!  Every 
happiness  and  prosperity  !  If,  in  the  progress  of  revolving  145 
years,  I  could  persuade  myself  that  my  blighted  destiny 
had  been  a  warning  to  you,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  not 
occupied  another  man's  place  in  existence  altogether  in  vain. 
In  case  of  anything  turning  up  (of  which  I  am  rather  con- 
fident), I  shall  be  extremely  happy  if  it  should  be  in  my  power  150 
to  improve  your  prospects." 


Uriah  Heep 
{From  David  Copperfield,  Chaps.  XV,  XVI) 

When  the  pony-chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  and  my  eyes 
were  intent  upon  the  house,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  face  appear 
at  a  small  window  on  the  ground  floor  (in  a  little  round  tower 
that  formed  one  side  of  the  house),  and  quickly  disappear. 
The  low  arched  door  then  opened,  and  the  face  came  out.  s 
It  was  quite  as  cadaverous  as  it  had  looked  in  the  window, 
though  in  the  grain  of  it  there  was  that  tinge  of  red  which 
is  sometimes  to  be  observed  in  the  skins  of  red-haired  people. 
It  belonged  to  a  red-haired  person  —  a  youth  of  fifteen,  as 
I  take  it  now,  but  looking  much  older  —  whose  hair  was  10 
cropped  as  close  as  the  closest  stubble;  who  had  hardly 
any  eyebrows,  and  no  eye-lashes,  and  eyes  of  a  red-brown, 
so  unsheltered  and  unshaded,  that  I  remember  wondering 
how  he  went  to  sleep.  He  was  high-shouldered  and  bony : 
dressed  in  decent  black,  with  a  white  wisp  of  a  neckcloth :  15 
buttoned  up  to  the  throat ;  and  had  a  long,  lank,  skeleton 
hand,  which  particularly  attracted  my  attention,  as  he  stood 
at  the  pony's  head,  rubbing  his  chin  with  it,  and  looking  up 
at  us  in  the  chaise. 

"Is  Mr.  Wickfield  at  home,  Uriah  Heep?"  said  my  aunt.  20 
"Mr.   Wickfield's  at  home,   ma'am,"   said  Uriah  Heep, 


352  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"if  you'll  please  to  walk  in  there:"  pointing  with  his  long 
hand  to  the  room  he  meant. 

We  got  out ;  and  leaving  him  to  hold  the  pony,  went  into  a 

25  long  low  parlour  looking  towards  the  street,  from  the  window 

of  which  I  caught  a  glimpse,  as  I  went  in,  of  Uriah  Heep 

breathing  into  the  pony's  nostrils,  and  immediately  covering 

them  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  putting  some  spell  upon  him. 

As  I  came  back,  I  saw  Uriah  Heep  shutting  up  the  office ; 

30  and,  feeling  friendly  towards  everybody,  went  in  and  spoke 

to  him,  and  at  parting,  gave  him  my  hand.     But  oh,  what  a 

clammy  hand  his  was  !  as  ghostly  to  the  touch  as  to  the  sight ! 

I  rubbed  mine  afterwards,  to  warm  it,  and  to  rub  his  off. 

It  was  such  an  uncomfortable  hand,  that,  when  I  went 

35  to  my  room,  it  was  still  cold  and  wet  upon  my  memory. 
Leaning  out  of  window,  and  seeing  one  of  the  faces  on  the 
beam-ends  looking  at  me  sideways,  I  fancied  it  was  Uriah 
Heep  got  up  there  somehow,  and  shut  him  out  in  a  hurry. 

Seeing  a  light  in  the  little  round  office,  and  immediately 
40  feeling  myself  attracted  towards  Uriah  Heep,  who  had  a 
sort  of  fascination  for  me,  I  went  in  there  instead.  I  found 
Uriah  reading  a  great  fat  book,  with  such  demonstrative 
attention,  that  his  lank  forefinger  followed  up  every  line  as 
he  read,  and  made  clammy  tracks  along  the  page  (or  so  I 
45  fully  believed)  like  a  snail. 

"  You  are  working  late  to-night,  Uriah,"  says  I. 
"Yes,  Master  Copperfield,"  says  Uriah. 
As  I  was  getting  on  the  stool  opposite,  to  talk  to  him 
more  conveniently,  I  observed  that  he  had  not  such  a  thing 
50  as  a  smile  about  him,  and  that  he  could  only  widen  his  mouth 
and  make  two  hard  creases  down  his  cheeks,  one  on  each 
side,  to  stand  for  one. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  353 

"I  am  not  doing  ofl&ce-work,  Master  Copperfield,"  said 
Uriah. 

"What  work,  then?"  I  asked.  55 

"I  am  improving  my  legal  knowledge,  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah.  "  I  am  going  through  Tidd's  Practice. 
Oh,  what  a  writer  Mr.  Tidd  is,  Master  Copperfield !" 

My  stool  was  such  a  tower  of  observation,  that  as  I 
watched  him  reading  on  again,  after  this  rapturous  exclama-  60 
tion,  and  following  up  the  lines  with  his  forefinger,  I  observed 
that  his  nostrils,  which  were  thin  and  pointed,  with  sharp 
dints  in  them,  had  a  singular  and  most  uncomfortable  way 
of  expanding  and  contracting  themselves ;  that  they  seemed  to 
twinkle  instead  of  his  eyes,  which  hardly  ever  twinkled  at  all.  65 

"I  suppose  you  are  quite  a  great  lawyer?"  I  said,  after 
looking  at  him  for  some  time. 

"Me,  Master  Copperfield?"  said  Uriah.  "Oh,  no!  I'm 
a  very  umble  person." 

It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands,  I  observed; 70 
for  he  frequently  ground  the  palms  against  each  other  as 
if  to  squeeze  them  dry  and  .warm,  besides  often  wiping  them, 
in  a  stealthy  way,  on  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

"I  am  well  aware  that  I  am  the  umblest  person  going," 
said  Uriah  Heep,  modestly ;  "  let  the  other  be  where  he  may.  75 
My  mother  is  likewise  a  very  umble  person.  We  live  in  a 
numble  abode.  Master  Copperfield,  but  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  My  father's  former  calling  was  umble.  He 
was  a  sexton." 

"What  is  he  now?"  I  asked.  80 

"He  is  a  partaker  of  glory  at  present.  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah  Heep.  "  But  we  have  much  to  be  thank- 
ful for.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for  in  living  with 
Mr.  Wickfieldl" 

I  asked  Uriah  if  he  had  been  with  Mr.  Wickfield  long  ?       85 
.    "  I  have  been  with  him  going  on  four  year,  Master  Copper- 


354  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

field,"  said  Uriah :  shutting  up  his  book,  after  carefully 
marking  the  place  where  he  had  left  off.  "Since  a  year 
after  my  father's  death.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful 
90  for,  in  that !  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for,  in  Mr. 
Wickfield's  kind  intention  to  give  me  my  articles,  which 
would  otherwise  not  lay  within  the  umble  means  of  mother 
and  self!" 

"Then,  when  your  articled  time  is  over,  you'll  be  a  regular 
95 lawyer,  I  suppose?"  said  I. 

"With  the  blessing  of  Providence,  Master  Copperfield," 
returned  Uriah. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  be  a  partner  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  business, 
one  of  these  days,"  I  said,  to  make  myself  agreeable;   "and 
100  it  will  be  Wickfield  and  Heep,  or  Heep  late  Wickfield." 

"Oh,  no.  Master  Copperfield,"  returned  Uriah,  shaking 
his  head,  "I  am  much  too  umble  for  that !" 

He  certainly  did  look  uncommonly  like  the  carved  face 
on  the  beam  outside  my  window,  as  he  sat,  in  his  humility, 
105  eyeing  me  sideways,  with  his  mouth  widened,  and  the  creases 
in  his  cheeks. 

"Mr.  Wickfield  is  a  most  excellent  man.  Master  Copper- 
field,"  said  Uriah.  "If  you  have  known  him  long,  you  know 
it,  I  am  sure,  much  better  than  I  can  inform  you." 
110  I  replied  that  I  was  certain  he  was;  but  that  I  had  not 
known  him  long  myself,  though  he  was  a  friend  of  my  aunt's. 
"Oh,  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah.  "Your 
aunt  is  a  sweet  lady.  Master  Copperfield ! " 

He  had  a  way  of  writhing  when  he  wanted  to  express 
115 enthusiasm,  which  was  very  ugly;    and  which  diverted  my 
attention  from  the  compliment  he  had  paid  my  relation, 
to  the  snaky  twistings  of  his  throat  and  body. 

"A  sweet  lady.  Master  Copperfield!"  said  Uriah  Heep. 
"  She  has  a  great  admiration  for  Miss  Agnes,  Master  Copper- 
120 field,  I  believe?" 


CHARLES  DICKENS  355 

I  said  "Yes,"  boldly;  not  that  I  knew  anything  about  it. 
Heaven  forgive  me! 

"I  hope  you  have,  too,  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah. 
"But  I  am  sure  you  must  have." 

"  Everybody  must  have,"  I  returned.  125 

"Oh,  thank  you.  Master  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah  Heep, 
"for  that  remark!  It  is  so  true!  Umble  as  I  am,  I  know 
it  is  so  true !     Oh,  thank  you.  Master  Copperfield !" 

He  writhed  himself  quite  off  his  stool  in  the  excitement 
of  his  feelings,  and,  being  off,  began  to  make  arrangements  130 
for  going  home. 

"Mother  will  be  expecting  me,"  he  said,  referring  to  a 
pale,  inexpressive-faced  watch  in  his  pocket,  "and  getting 
uneasy ;  for  though  we  are  very  umble.  Master  Copperfield, 
we  are  much  attached  to  one  another.  If  you  would  come  135 
and  see  us,  any  afternoon,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  at  our 
lowly  dwelling,  mother  would  be  as  proud  of  your  company 
as  I  should  be." 

I  said  I  should  be  glad  to  come. 

"  Thank  you.  Master  Copperfield,"  returned  Uriah,  put- 140 
ting  his  book  away  upon  the  shelf.  —  "I  suppose  you  stop 
here,  some  time.  Master  Copperfield?" 

I  said  I  was  going  to  be  brought  up  there,  I  believed,  as 
long  as  I  remained  at  school. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Uriah.     "I  should  think  you  145 
would  come  into  the  business  at  last.  Master  Copperfield!" 

I  protested  that  I  had  no  views  of  that  sort,  and  that  no 
such  scheme  was  entertained  in  my  behalf  by  anybody; 
but  Uriah  insisted  on  blandly  replying  to  all  my  assurances, 
"Oh,  yes.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should  think  you  would,  150 
indeed ! "  and,  "  Oh,  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should 
think  you  would,  certainly!"  over  and  over  again.  Being, 
at  last,  ready  to  leave  the  office  for  the  night,  he  asked  me 
if  it  would  suit  my  convenience  to  have  the  light  put  out ; 


356  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

155 and  on  my  answering  "Yes,"  instantly  extinguished  it. 
After  shaking  hands  with  me  —  his  hand  felt  like  a  fish, 
in  the  dark  —  he  opened  the  door  into  the  street  a  very  little, 
and  crept  out,  and  shut  it,  leaving  me  to  grope  my  way  back 
into  the  house :   which  cost  me  some  trouble  and  a  fall  over 

160  his  stool.  This  was  the  proximate  cause,  I  suppose,  of  my 
dreaming  about  him,  for  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  half 
the  night. 


GEORGE   ELIOT 
Maggie  Behaves  Worse  than  she  Expected 
{From  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Book  I,  Chap.  X) 

The  startling  object  which  thus  made  an  epoch  for  uncle 
Pullet  was  no  other  than  little  Lucy,  with  one  side  of  her 
person,  from  her  small  foot  to  her  bonnet-crown,  wet  and 
discoloured  with  mud,  holding  out  two  tiny  blackened 
6  hands,  and  making  a  very  piteous  face.  To  account  for 
this  unprecedented  apparition  in  aunt  Pullet's  parlour,  we 
must  return  to  the  moment  when  the  three  children  went 
to  play  out  of  doors,  and  the  small  demons  who  had  taken 
possession  of  Maggie's  soul  at  an  early  period  of  the  day 

10  had  returned  in  all  the  greater  force  after  a  temporary 
absence.  All  the  disagreeable  recollections  of  the  morning 
were  thick  upon  her,  when  Tom,  whose  displeasure  towards 
her  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  her  foolish  trick 
of  causing  him  to  upset  his  cowslip  wine,  said,  "  Here,  Lucy, 

15  you  come  along  with  me,"  and  walked  off  to  the  area  where 
the  toads  were,  as  if  there  were  not  Maggie  in  existence. 
Seeing  this,  Maggie  lingered  at  a  distance,  looking  like  a 
small  Medusa  with  her  snakes  cropped.  Lucy  was  naturally 
pleased  that  cousin  Tom  was  so  good  to  her,  and  it  was  very 

20  amusing  to  see  him  tickling  a  fat  toad  with  a  piece  of  string 


GEORGE  ELIOT  357 

when  the  toad  was  safe  down  the  area,  with  an  iron  grating 
over  him.  Still  Lucy  wished  Maggie  to  enjoy  the  spectacle 
also,  especially  as  she  would  doubtless  find  a  name  for  the 
toad;  and  say  what  had  been  his  past  history;  for  Lucy 
had  a  delighted  semi-belief  in  Maggie's  stories  about  the  25 
live  things  they  came  upon  by  accident  —  how  Mrs.  Earwig 
had  a  wash  at  home,  and  one  of  her  children  had  fallen 
into  the  hot  copper,  for  which  reason  she  was  running  so 
fast  to  fetch  the  doctor.  Tom  had  a  profound  contempt 
for  this  nonsense  of  Maggie's,  smashing  the  earwig  at  once  30 
as  a  superfluous  yet  easy  means  of  proving  the  entire  un- 
reality of  such  a  story ;  but  Lucy,  for  the  life  of  her,  could 
not  help  fancying  there  was  something  in  it,  and  at  all  events 
thought  it  was  very  pretty  make-believe.  So  now  the  de- 
sire to  know  the  history  of  a  very  portly  toad,  added  to  her  35 
habitual  affectionateness,  made  her  run  back  to  Maggie 
and  say,  "  Oh,  there  is  such  a  big,  funny  toad,  Maggie !  Do 
come  and  see." 

Maggie  said  nothing,  but  turned  away  from  her  with  a 
deeper  frown.     As  long  as  Tom  seemed  to  prefer  Lucy  to  40 
her,   Lucy  made  part  of  his   unkindness.     Maggie  would 
have  thought  a  little  while  ago  that  she  could  never  be  cross 
with  pretty  little  Lucy,  any  more  than  she  could  be  cruel 
to  a  little  white  mouse ;    but  then,  Tom  had  always  been 
quite  indifferent  to  Lucy  before,  and  it  had  been  left  to  Maggie  45 
to  pet  and  make  much  of  her.     As  it  was,  she  was  actually 
beginning  to  think  that  she  should  like  to  make  Lucy  cry, 
by  slapping  or  pinching  her,  especially  as  it  might  vex  Tom, 
whom  it  was  of  no  use  to  slap,  even  if  she  dared,  because 
he  didn't  mind  it.     And  if  Lucy  hadn't  been  there,  Maggie  50 
was  sure  he  would  have  got  friends  with  her  sooner. 

Tickling  a  fat  toad  who  is  not  highly  sensitive  is  an  amuse- 
ment that  it  is  possible  to  exhaust,  and  Tom  by  and  by 
began  to  look  round  for  some  other  mode  of  passing  the  time. 


358  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

55  But  in  so  prim  a  garden,  where  they  were  not  to  go  off  the 
paved  walks,  there  was  not  a  great  choice  of  sport.  The 
only  great  pleasure  such  a  restriction  allowed  was  the  pleasure 
of  breaking  it,  and  Tom  began  to  meditate  an  insurrectionary 
visit  to  the  pond,  about  a  field's  length  beyond  the  garden. 
60  "I  say,  Lucy,"  he  began,  nodding  his  head  up  and  down 
with  great  significance,  as  he  coiled  up  his  string  again, 
"what  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do?" 

"What,  Tom?"  said  Lucy,  with  curiosity. 
"I  mean  to  go  to  the  pond,  and  look  at  the  pike.     You 
65  may  go  with  me  if  you  like, "  said  the  young  sultan. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  dare  you  ?  "  said  Lucy.     "  Aunt  said  we  mustn't 
go  out  of  the  garden." 

"Oh,  I  shall  go  out  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden,"  said 
Tom.     "Nobody  'ull  see  us.     Besides,  I  don't  care  if  they 
70  do  —  I'll  run  off  home." 

"But  I  couldn't  run,"  said  Lucy,  who  had  never  before 
been  exposed  to  such  severe  temptation. 

"Oh,  never  mind  —  they  won't  be  cross  with  you,'"  said 
Tom.  "You  say  I  took  you." 
75  Tom  walked  along,  and  Lucy  trotted  by  his  side,  timidly 
enjoying  the  rare  treat  of  doing  something  naughty  — 
excited  also  by  the  mention  of  that  celebrity,  the  pike,  about 
which  she  was  quite  uncertain  whether  it  was  a  fish  or  a  fowl. 
Maggie  saw  them  leaving  the  garden,  and  could  not  resist 
80  the  impulse  to  follow.  Anger  and  jealousy  can  no  more 
bear  to  lose  sight  of  their  objects  than  love,  and  that  Tom 
and  Lucy  should  do  or  see  anything  of  which  she  was  igno- 
rant would  have  been  an  intolerable  idea  to  Maggie.  So 
she  kept  a  few  yards  behind  them,  unobserved  by  Tom, 
85  who  was  presently  absorbed  in  watching  for  the  pike  —  a 
highly  interesting  monster;  he  was  said  to  be  so  very  old, 
so  very  large,  and  to  have  such  a  remarkable  appetite.  The 
pike,  like  other  celebrities,  did  not  show  when  he  was  watched 


GEORGE  ELIOT  359 

for,  but  Tom  caught  sight  of  something  in  rapid  movement 
in  the  water,  which  attracted  him  to  another  spot  on  the  90 
brink  of  the  pond. 

"Here,  Lucy!"  he  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  "come  here! 
take  care !  keep  on  the  grass  —  don't  step  where  the  cows 
have  been !"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  peninsula  of  dry  grass, 
with  trodden  mud  on  each  side  of  it ;  for  Tom's  contempt-  95 
uous  conception  of  a  girl  included  the  attribute  of  being 
unfit  to  walk  in  dirty  places. 

Lucy  came  carefully  as  she  was  bidden,  and  bent  down 
to  look  at  what  seemed  a  golden  arrow-head  darting  through 
the  water.  It  was  a  water-snake,  Tom  told  her,  and  Lucy  100 
at  last  could  see  the  serpentine  wave  of  its  body,  very  much 
wondering  that  a  snake  could  swim.  Maggie  had  drawn 
nearer  and  nearer  —  she  must  see  it  too,  though  it  was  bitter 
to  her  like  everything  else,  since  Tom  did  not  care  about 
her  seeing  it.  At  last,  she  was  close  by  Lucy,  and  Tom,  105 
who  had  been  aware  of  her  approach,  but  would  not  notice 
it  till  he  was  obliged,  turned  round  and  said  — 

"Now,  get  away,  Maggie.     There's  no  room  for  you  on 
the  grass  here.     Nobody  asked  you  to  come." 

There  were  passions  at  war  in  Maggie  at  that  moment  no 
to  have  made  a  tragedy,  if  tragedies  were  made  by  passion 
only,  but  the  essential  n  /tc'yc^os  which  was  present  in  the 
passion  was  wanting  to  the  action ;  the  utmost  Maggie 
could  do,  with  a  fierce  thrust  of  her  small  brown  arm,  was  to 
push  poor  little  pink-and-white  Lucy  into  the  cow-trodden  115 
mud. 

Then  Tom  could  not  restrain  himself,  and  gave  Maggie 
two  smart  slaps  on  the  arm  as  he  ran  to  pick  up  Lucy,  who 
lay  crying  helplessly.  Maggie  retreated  to  the  roots  of  a 
tree  a  few  yards  off,  and  looked  on  impenitently.  Usually  120 
her  repentance  came  quickly  after  one  rash  deed,  but  now 
Tom  and  Lucy  had  made  her  so  miserable,  she  was  glad  to 


360  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

spoil  their  happiness  —  glad  to  make  everybody  uncomfort- 
able.    Why  should  she  be  sorry?     Tom  was  very  slow  to 

125  forgive  her,  however  sorry  she  might  have  been. 

"I  shall  tell  mother,  you  know,  Miss  Mag,"  said  Tom, 
loudly  and  emphatically,  as  soon  as  Lucy  was  up  and  ready 
to  walk  away.  It  was  not  Tom's  practice  to  "tell,"  but 
here  justice  clearly  demanded  that  Maggie  should  be  visited 

130  with  the  utmost  punishment :  not  that  Tom  had  learnt 
to  put  his  views  in  that  abstract  form ;  he  never  mentioned 
"justice,"  and  had  no  idea  that  his  desire  to  punish  might 
be  called  by  that  fine  name.  Lucy  was  too  entirely  absorbed 
by  the  evil  that  had  befallen  her  —  the  spoiling  of  her  pretty 

135  best  clothes,  and  the  discomfort  of  being  wet  and  dirty  — 
to  think  much  of  the  cause,  which  was  entirely  mysterious 
to  her.  She  could  never  have  guessed  what  she  had  done 
to  make  Maggie  angry  with  her;  but  she  felt  that  Maggie 
was  very  unkind  and  disagreeable,  and  made  no  magnani- 

I40mous  entreaties  to  Tom  that  he  would  not  "tell,"  only 
running  along  by  his  side  and  crying  piteously,  while  Maggie 
sat  on  the  roots  of  the  tree  and  looked  after  them  with  her 
small  Medusa  face. 

"Sally,"  said  Tom,  when  they  reached  the  kitchen  door, 

145  and  Sally  looked  at  them  in  speechless  amaze,  with  a  piece 
of  bread-and-butter  in  her  mouth  and  a  toasting-fork  in  her 
hand  —  "  Sally,  tell  mother  it  was  Maggie  pushed  Lucy  into 
the  mud." 

"But  Lors  ha'  massy,  how  did  you  get  near  such  mud  as 

150 that?"  said  Sally,  making  a  wry  face,  as  she  stooped  down 
and  examined  the  corpus  delicti. 

Tom's  imagination  had  not  been  rapid  and  capacious 
enough  to  include  this  question  among  the  foreseen  conse- 
quences, but  it  was  no  sooner  put  than  he  foresaw  whither 

155  it  tended,  and  that  Maggie  would  not  be  considered  the 
only  culprit  in  the  case.     He  walked  quietly  away  from  the 


GEORGE  ELIOT  361 

kitchen  door,  leaving  Sally  to  that  pleasure  of  guessing 
which  active  minds  notoriously  prefer  to  ready-made 
knowledge. 

Sally,  as  you  are  aware,  lost  no  time  in  presenting  Lucy  160 
at  the  parlour  door,  for  to  have  so  dirty  an  object  introduced 
into  the  house  at  Garum  Firs  was  too  great  a  weight  to  be  sus- 
tained by  a  single  mind. 

"Goodness  gracious!"  aunt  Pullet  exclaimed,  after  pre- 
luding by  an  inarticulate  scream ;    "  keep  her  at  the  door,  165 
Sally !     Don't  bring  her  off  the  oilcloth,  whatever  you  do." 

"Why  she's  tumbled  into  some  nasty  mud,"  said  Mrs. 
TuUiver,  going  up  to  Lucy  to  examine  into  the  amount  of 
damage  to  clothes  for  which  she  felt  herself  responsible  to 
her  sister  Deane.  170 

"  If  you  please,  'um,  it  was  Miss  Maggie  as  pushed  her  in," 
said  Sally ;  "  Master  Tom's  been  and  said  so,  and  they 
must  ha'  been  to  the  pond,  for  it's  only  there  they  could  ha' 
got  into  such  dirt." 

"There  it  is,  Bessy;    it's  what  I've  been  telling  you,"  175 
said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  tone  of  prophetic  sadness ;    "  it's  your 
children  —  there's  no  knowing  what  they'll  come  to." 

Mrs.  TuUiver  was  mute,  feeling  herself  a  truly  wretched 
mother.  As  usual,  the  thought  pressed  upon  her  that  people 
would  think  that  she  had  done  something  wicked  to  deserve  180 
her  maternal  troubles,  while  Mrs.  Pullet  began  to  give 
elaborate  directions  to  Sally  how  to  guard  the  premises  from 
serious  injury  in  the  course  of  removing  the  dirt.  Mean- 
time tea  was  to  be  brought  in  by  the  cook,  and  the  two 
naughty  children  were  to  have  theirs  in  an  ignominous  185 
manner  in  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  TuUiver  went  out  to  speak 
to  these  naughty  children,  supposing  them  to  be  close  at 
hand ;  but  it  was  not  until  after  some  search  that  she  found 
Tom  leaning  with  rather  a  hardened  careless  air  against  the 
white  paling  of  the  poultry-yard,  and  lowering  his  piece  of  190 


362  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

string  on  the  other  side  as  a  means  of  exasperating  the 
turkey-cock. 

"Tom,  you  naughty  boy,  where's  your  sister?"  said  Mrs. 
Tulhver  in  a  distressed  voice. 
195  "  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom ;  his  eagerness  for  justice  on 
Maggie  had  diminished  since  he  had  seen  clearly  that  it 
could  hardly  be  brought  about  without  the  injustice  of  some 
blame  on  his  own  conduct. 

"Why,  where  did  you  leave  her?"  said  his  mother,  looking 
200  round. 

"Sitting  under  the  tree,  against  the  pond,"  said  Tom, 
apparently  indifferent  to  everything  but  the  string  and 
the  turkey-cock. 

"Then  go  and  fetch  her  in  this  minute,  you  naughty  boy. 
205  And  how  could  you  think  o'  going  to  the  pond,  and  taking 
your   sister  where   there   was   dirt?     You   know   she'll   do 
mischief,  if  there's  mischief  to  be  done." 

It  was  Mrs.  Tulliver's  way,  if  she  blamed  Tom,  to  refer 
his  misdemeanour,  somehow  or  other,  to  Maggie. 
210  The  idea  of  Maggie  sitting  alone  by  the  pond  roused  an 
habitual  fear  in  Mrs.  TuUiver's  mind,  and  she  mounted 
the  horse-block  to  satisfy  herself  by  a  sight  of  that  fatal 
child,  while  Tom  walked  —  not  very  quickly  —  on  his  way 
towards  her. 
215  "They're  such  children  for  the  water,  mine  are,"  she  said 
aloud,  without  reflecting  that  there  was  no  one  to  hear  her ; 
"they'll  be  brought  in  dead  and  drownded  some  day.  I 
wish  that  river  was  far  enough." 

But  when  she  not  only  failed   to  discern  Maggie,   but 
220  presently   saw   Tom   returning   from   the   pool   alone,    this 
hovering  fear  entered  and  took  complete  possession  of  her, 
and  she  hurried  to  meet  him. 

"Maggie's  nowhere  about  the  pond,  mother,"  said  Tom; 
"she's  gone  away." 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY         363 

You  may  conceive  the  terrified  search  for  Maggie,  and  the  225 
difficulty  of  convincing  her  mother  that  she  was  not  in  the 
pond.  Mrs.  Pullet  observed  that  the  child  might  come  to 
a  worse  end  if  she  lived  —  there  was  no  knowing ;  and  Mr. 
Pullet,  confused  and  overwhelmed  by  this  revolutionary 
aspect  of  things  —  the  tea  deferred  and  the.  poultry  alarmed  230 
by  the  unusual  running  to  and  fro  —  took  up  his  spud  as 
an  instrument  of  search,  and  reached  down  a  key  to  un- 
lock the  goose-pen,  as  a  likely  place  for  Maggie  to  lie  con- 
cealed in. 

Tom,  after  a  while,  started  the  idea  that  Maggie  was  gone  235 
home   (without  thinking  it  necessary  to  state  that  it  was 
what  he  should  have  done  himself  under  the  circumstances), 
and  the  suggestion  was  seized  as  a  comfort. by  his  mother. 

"Sister,  for  goodness'  sake,  let  'em  put  the  horse  in  the 
carriage  and  take  me  home  —  we  shall  perhaps  find  her  on  240 
the  road.     Lucy  can't  walk  in  her  dirty  clothes,"  she  said, 
looking  at  that  innocent  victim,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  a 
shawl,  and  sitting  with  naked  feet  on  the  sofa. 

Aunt  Pullet  was  quite  willing  to  take  the  shortest  means 
of  restoring  her  premises  to  order  and  quiet,  and  it  was  not  245 
long  before  Mrs.  TuUiver  was  in  the  chaise,  looking  anxiously 
at  the  most  distant  point  before  her.  What  the  father 
would  say  if  Maggie  was  lost?  was  a  question  that  pre- 
dominated over  every  other. 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 

Mrs.  Crawley,  the  Colonel,  and  Little  Rawdy 

{From  Vanity  Fair,  Chap.  XXXVII) 

About  the  little  Rawdon,  if  nothing  has  been  said  all 

this  while,  it  is  because  he  is  hidden  upstairs  in  a  garret 

somewhere  or  has  crawled  below  into  the  kitchen  for  com- 


364  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

panionship.  His  mother  scarcely  ever  took  notice  of  him. 
sHe  passed  the  days  with  his  French  bonne  as  long  as  that 
domestic  remained  in  Mr.  Crawley's  family,  and  when  the 
Frenchwoman  went  away,  the  little  fellow,  howling  in  the 
loneliness  of  the  night,  had  compassion  taken  on  him  by 
the  housemaid,  who  took  him  out  of  his  solitary  nursery 

10  into  her  bed  in  the  garret  hard  by,  and  comforted  him. 

Rebecca,  my  Lord  Steyne,  and  one  or  two  more  were  in 
fhe  drawing-room  taking  tea  after  the  Opera,  when  this 
shouting  was  heard  overhead.  "It's  my  cherub  crying 
for  his  nurse,"  she  said.     She  did  not  offer  to  move  to  go 

15 and  see  the  child.  "Don't  agitate  your  feelings  by  going 
to  look  for  him,"  said  Lord  Steyne,  sardonically.  "Bah!" 
replied  the  other,  with  a  sort  of  blush,  "he'll  cry  himself 
to  sleep ; "  and  they  fell  to  talking  about  the  Opera. 

Rawdon  had  stolen  off  though,  to  look  after  his  son  and 

20 heir;  and  came  back  to  the  company  when  he  found  that 
honest  Dolly  was  consoling  the  child.  The  Colonel's  dress- 
ing-room was  in  those  upper  regions.  He  used  to  see  the 
boy  there  in  private.  They  had  interviews  together  every 
morning  when  he  shaved ;    Rawdon  minor  sitting  on  a  box 

25  by  his  father's  side,  and  watching  the  operation  with  never- 
ceasing  pleasure.  He  and  the  sire  were  great  friends.  The 
father  would  bring  him  sweetmeats  from  the  dessert,  and 
hide  them  in  a  certain  old  epaulet  box,  where  the  child  went 
to  see  them,  and  laughed  with  joy  on  discovering  the  treasure ; 

30  laughed,  but  not  too  loud ;  for  mamma  was  below  asleep  and 
must  not  be  disturbed.  She  did  not  go  to  rest  till  very 
late,  and  seldom  rose  till  after  noon. 

Rawdon  bought  the  boy  plenty  of  picture-books,  and 
crammed  his  nursery  with  toys.     Its  walls  were  covered 

35  with  pictures  pasted  up  by  the  father's  own  hand,  and 
purchased  by  him  for  ready-money.  When  he  was  off 
duty  with  Mrs.  Rawdon  in  the  Park,  he  would  sit  up  here. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY         365 

passing  hours  with  the  boy;  who  rode  on  his  chest,  who 
pulled  his  great  mustachios  as  if  they  were  driving-reins, 
and  spent  days  with  him  in  indefatigable  gambols.  The  40 
room  was  a  low  room,  and  once,  when  the  child  was  not 
five  years  old,  his  father,  who  was  tossing  him  wildly  up  in 
his  arms,  hit  the  poor  little  chap's  skull  so  violently  against 
the  ceiling  that  he  almost  dropped  the  child,  so  terrified 
was  he  at  the  disaster.  Rawdon  minor  had  made  up  his  45 
face  for  a  tremendous  howl  —  the  severity  of  the  blow 
indeed  authorised  that  indulgence ;  but  just  as  he  was  going 
to  begin,  the  father  interposed. 

"For  God's  sake,  Rawdy,  don't  wake  mamma,"  he  cried. 
And  the  child  looking  in  a  very  hard  and  piteous  way  at  50 
his  father,  bit  his  lips,  clenched  his  hands,  and  didn't  cry  a 
bit.  Rawdon  told  that  story  at  the  clubs,  at  the  mess,  to 
everybody  in  town.  "By  Gad,  sir,"  he  explained  to  the 
public  in  general,  "what  a  good  plucked  one  that  boy  of  mine 
is  —  what  a  trump  he  is  !  I  half  sent  his  head  through  the  55 
ceiling,  by  Gad,  and  he  wouldn't  cry  for  fear  of  disturbing 
his  mother." 

Sometimes  —  once  or  twice  in  a  week  —  that  lady  visited 
the  upper  regions  in  which  the  child  lived.     She  came  like 
a  vivified  figure  out  of  the  Magasin  des  Modes  —  blandly  60 
smiling  in  the  most  beautiful  new  clothes  and  little  gloves 
and  boots.     Wonderful   scarfs,   laces,   and  jewels  glittered 
about  her.     She  had  always  a  new  bonnet  on,  and  flowers 
bloomed  perpetually  in  it ;  or  else  magnificent  curling  ostrich 
feathers,  soft  and  snowy  as  camellias.     She  nodded  twice  66 
or  thrice  patronisingly  to  the  little  boy,  who  looked  up  from 
his  dinner  or  from  the  pictures  of  soldiers  he  was  painting. 
When  she  left  the  room,  an  odour  of  rose,  or  some  other 
magical  fragrance,   lingered  about  the  nursery.     She  was 
an  unearthly  being  in  his  eyes,  superior  to  his  father  —  to  70 
all  the  world :   to  be  worshipped  and  admired  at  a  distance. 


366  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

To  drive  with  that  lady  in  the  carriage  was  an  awful  rite; 
he  sat  up  in  the  back  seat,  and  did  not  dare  to  speak ;  he 
gazed  with  all  his  eyes  at  the  beautifully  dressed  princess 

75  opposite  to  him.  Gentlemen  on  splendid  prancing  horses 
came  up,  and  smiled  and  talked  with  her.  How  her  eyes 
beamed  on  all  of  them  !  Her  hand  used  to  quiver  and  wave 
gracefully  as  they  passed.  When  he  went  out  with  her  he 
had  his  new  red  dress  on.     His  old  brown  holland  was  good 

80  enough  when  he  stayed  at  home.  Sometimes  when  she  was 
away,  and  Dolly  his  maid  was  making  the  bed,  he  came  into 
his  mother's  room.  It  was  as  the  abode  of  a  fairy  to  him 
—  a  mystic  chamber  of  splendour  and  delights.  There  in 
the  wardrobe  hung  those  wonderful  robes  —  pink  and  blue, 

85  and  many-tinted.  There  was  the  jewel-case,  silver-clasped ; 
and  the  wondrous  bronze  hand  on  the  dressing-table,  glist- 
ening all  over  with  a  hundred  rings.  There  was  the  cheval- 
glass,  that  miracle  of  art,  in  which  he  could  just  see  his  own 
wondering  head,  and  the  reflection  of  Dolly  (queerl3'-  distorted 

90  and  as  if  up  in  the  ceiling),  plumping  and  patting  the  pil- 
lows of  the  bed.  Oh,  thou  poor  lonely  little  benighted 
boy !  Mother  is  the  name  for  God  in  the  lips  and  hearts 
of  little  children;  and  here  was  one  who  was  worshipping 
a  stone ! 

95  Now  Rawdon  Crawley,  rascal  as  the  Colonel  was,  had 
certain  manly  tendencies  of  affection  in  his  heart,  and  could 
love  a  child  and  a  woman  still.  For  Rawdon  minor  he  had 
a  great  secret  tenderness  then,  which  did  not  escape  Re- 
becca, though  she  did  not  talk  about  it  to  her  husband. 
100 It  did  not  annoy  her;  she  was  too  good-natured.  It  only 
increased  her  scorn  for  him.  He  felt  somehow  ashamed 
at  this  paternal  softness,  and  hid  it  from  his  wife  —  only 
indulging  it  when  alone  with  the  boy. 

He  used  to  take  him  out  of  mornings,  when  they  would 
105  go  to  the  stables  together,  and  to  the  Park.     Little  Lord 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY        367 

Southdown,  the  best-natured  of  men,  who  would  make  you 
a  present  of  the  hat  from  his  head,  and  whose  main  occupa- 
tion in  life  was  to  buy  nicknacks  that  he  might  give  them 
away  afterwards,  bought  the  little  chap  a  pony  not  much 
bigger  than  a  large  rat,  the  donor  said,  and  on  this  little  black  lio 
Shetland  pigmy  young  Rawdon's  great  father  was  pleased 
to  mount  the  boy,  and  to  walk  by  his  side  in  the  Park.  It 
pleased  him  to  see  his  old  quarters,  and  his  old  fellow-guards- 
men at  Knightsbridge :  he  had  begun  to  think  of  his  bach- 
elorhood with  something  like  regret.  The  old  troopers  were  115 
glad  to  recognize  their  ancient  officer,  and  dandle  the  little 
Colonel.  Colonel  Crawley  found  dining  at  mess  and  with 
his  brother-oflficers  very  pleasant.  "Hang  it,  I  ain't  clever 
enough  fOr  her  —  I  know  it.  She  won't  miss  me,"  he  used 
to  say ;  and  he  was  right,  his  wife  did  not  miss  him.  120 

Rebecca  was  fond  of  her  husband.  She  was  always  per- 
fectly good-humored  and  kind  to  him.  She  did  not  even 
show  her  scorn  much  for  him;  perhaps  she  liked  him  the 
better  for  being  a  fool.  He  was  her  upper  servant  and  maitre 
d' hotel.  He  went  on  her  errands ;  obeyed  her  orders  without  125 
question ;  drove  in  the  carriage  in  the  ring  with  her  without 
repining;  took  her  to  the  Opera-box;  solaced  himself  at 
his  club  during  the  performance,  and  came  punctually  back 
to  fetch  her  when  due.  He  would  have  liked  her  to  be  a 
little  fonder  of  the  boy ;  but  even  to  that  he  reconciled  130 
himself.  "Hang  it,  you  know,  she's  so  clever,"  he  said, 
"and  I'm  not  literary  and  that,  you  know."  For,  as  we 
have  said  before,  it  requires  no  great  wisdom  to  be  able  to 
win  at  cards  and  billiards,  and  Rawdon  made  no  pretensions 
to  any  other  sort  of  skill.  135 


368  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Washington  Irving 
{From  Roundabout  Papers :  "  Nil  Nisi  Bonum  ") 

Almost  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  spoke  to  Lock- 
hart,  his  biographer,  were,  "Be  a  good  man,  my  dear!" 
and  with  the  last  flicker  of  breath  on  his  dying  lips,  he  sighed 
a  farewell  to  his  family,  and  passed  away  blessing  them. 
5  Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just  left  us,  the 
Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.^  Ere  a  few  weeks 
are  over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing  their 
lives  and  passing  judgment  on  their  work.  This  is  no  review, 
or  history,  or  criticism  :  only  a  word  in  testimony  of  respect 

10  and  regard  from  a  man  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own  pro- 
fessional labour  the  honour  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
these  two  eminent  literary  men. 

One  was  the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of 
Letters  sent  to  the  Old.      He  was  born  almost  with  the 

15 republic;  the  jiater  patriae  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's 
head.  He  bore  Washington's  name;  he  came  amongst  us 
bringing  the  kindest  sympathy,  the  most  artless,  smiling 
goodwill.  His  new  country  (which  some  people  here  might 
be   disposed   to   regard   rather   superciliously)   could   send 

20  us,  as  he  showed  in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who, 
though  himself  born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  fin- 
ished, polished,  easy,  witty,  quiet;  and,  socially,  the  equal 
of  the  most  refined  Europeans.  If  Irving's  welcome  in 
England  was  a   kind  one,   was   it  not  also   gratefully  re- 

25membered?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay  us  with  a 
thankful  heart?  Who  can  calculate  the  amount  of  friend- 
liness and  good  feeling  for  our  country  which  this  writer's 
generous  and  untiring  regard  for  us  disseminated  in  his  own  ? 

1  Washington  Irving  died  November  28,  1859 ;  Lord  Macaulay  died 
December  28,  1859.     [Thackeray's  note.] 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY        369 

His  books  are  read  by  millions  ^  of  his  countrymen,  whom  he 
has  taught  to  love  England,  and  why  to  love  her.  It  would  30 
have  been  easy  to  speak  otherwise  than  he  did;  to  inflame 
national  rancours,  which,  at  the  time  that  he  first  became 
known  as  a  public  writer,  war  had  just  .renewed;  to  cry 
down  the  old  civilization  at  the  expense  of  the  new ;  to  point 
out  our  faults,  arrogance,  short-comings,  and  give  the  re- 35 
public  to  infer  how  much  she  was  the  parent  state's  superior. 

There  are  writers  enough  in  the  United  States,  honest  and 
otherwise,  who  preach  that  kind  of  doctrine.  But  the  good 
Irving,  the  peaceful,  the  friendly,  had  no  place  for  bitterness 
in  his  heart,  and  no  scheme  but  kindness.  Received  in  40 
England  with  extraordinary  tenderness  and  friendship 
(Scott,  Southey,  Byron,  a  hundred  others  have  borne  witness 
to  their  liking  for  him),  he  was  a  messenger  of  goodwill 
-and  peace  between  his  country  and  ours.  "  See,  friends ! " 
he  seems  to  say,  "  these  English  are  not  so  wicked,  rapacious,  45 
callous,  proud,  as  you  have  been  taught  to  believe  them. 
I  went  amongst  them  a  humble  man ;  won  my  way  by  my 
pen;  and,  when  known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me 
with  kindliness  and  welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  man,  you 
acknowledge.  Did  not  Scott's  King  of  England  give  a  gold  50 
medal  to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your  countryman,  and 
a  stranger?" 

Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  retains  the 
history  of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  which  awaited  Irving 
on  his  return  to  his  native  country  from  Eiu-ope.  He  55 
had  a  national  welcome;  he  stammered  in  his  speeches, 
hid  himself  in  confusion,  and  the  people  loved  him  all  the 
better.  He  had  worthily  represented  America  in  Europe. 
In  that  young  community  a  man  who  brings  home  with  him 
abundant   European   testimonials   is   still   treated  with  re- 60 

1  See  his  Life  in  the  most  remarkable  Dictionary  of  Authors,  published 
lately  at  Philadelphia,  by  Mr.  Allibone.     [Thackeray's  note.] 


370  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

spect  (I  have  found  American  writers,  of  wide-world  repu- 
tation, strangely  solicitous  about  the  opinion  of  quite  obscure 
British  critics,  and  elated  or  depressed  by  their  judgments) ; 
and  Irving  went  home  medalled  by  the  King,  diplomatized 

65  by  the  University,  crowned  and  honoured  and  admired.  He 
had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his  honours,  he  had  fairly 
won  them;  and,  in  Irving's  instance,  as  in  others,  the  old 
country  was  glad  and  eager  to  pay  them. 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  national 

70  sentiment.  Party  wars  are  perpetually  raging  there,  and 
are  carried  on  by  the  press  with  a  rancour  and  fierceness 
against  individuals  which  exceed  British,  almost  Irish, 
virulence.*  It  seemed  to  me,  during  a  year's  travel  in  the 
country,  as  if  no  one  ever  aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.     All  men 

75  held  their  hands  from  that  harmless  friendly  peacemaker. 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  and  Washington,^  and  remarked  how  in  every 
place  he  was  honoured  and  welcome.  Every  large  city 
has  its  "Irving  House."     The  country  takes  pride  in  the 

80  fame  of  its  men  of  letters.  The  gate  of  his  own  charming 
little  domain  on  the  beautiful  Hudson  River  was  for  ever 
swinging  before  visitors  who  came  to  him.  He  shut  out 
no  one.^     I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his  house,  and  read 

1  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by  the  writer, 
which  Mr.  Fillmore  and  General  Pierce,  the  President  and  President 
Elect,  were  also  kind  enough  to  attend  together.  "Two  Kings  of  Brent- 
ford smelling  at  one  rose,"  says  Irving,  looking  up  with  his  good- 
humoured  smile.     [Thackeray's  note.] 

2  Mr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humour  and  good  humour 
which  he  always  kept,  how,  amocf^st  other  visitors,  a  member  of  the 
British  press  who  had  carried  his  distinguished  pen  to  America  (where 
he  employed  it  in  vilifying  his  own  country)  came  to  Sunnyside,  in- 
troduced himself  to  Irving,  partook  of  his  wine  and  luncheon,  and  in 
two  days  described  Mr.  Irving,  his  house,  his  nieces,  his  meal,  and 
his  manner  of  dozing  afterwards,  in  a  New  York  paper.  On  another 
occasion,  Irving  said,  laughing,  "Two  persons  came  to  me,  and  one  held 
me  in  conversation  whilst  the  other  miscreant  took  my  portrait!" 
[Thackeray's  note.] 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY        371 

descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of  which  it  was  treated  with  a  not 
unusual  American  exaggeration.     It  was  a  pretty  little  cabin  85 
of  a  place ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes  of  the 
place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping,  might  have  vis- 
ited the  whole  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 

And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when  Mr. 
Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  90 
millions,  when  his  profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the 
habits  of  life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were  notoriously  modest 
and  simple?     He  had  loved  once  in  his  life.     The  lady  he 
loved  died,  and  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought 
to  replace  her.     I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought  of  that  95 
fidelity  has  touched  me.     Does  not  the  very  cheerfulness 
of  his  after  life  add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story? 
To  grieve  always  was  not  in  his  nature ;  or,  when  he  had  his 
sorrow,  to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with  him  and 
bemoan  it.     Deep  and  quiet  he  lays  the  love  of  his  heart,  100 
and  buries  it;   and  grass  and  flowers  grow  over  the  scarred 
ground  in  due  time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  narrow  rooms, 
because  there  was  a  great  number  of  people  to  occupy  them. 
He  could  only  afford  to  keep  one  old  horse  (which,  lazy  and  105 
aged  as  it  was,  managed  once  or  twice  to  run  away  with 
that  careless  old  horseman).     He  could  only  afford  to  give 
plain    sherry    to    that    amiable    British    paragraph-monger 
from  New  York,  who  saw  the  patriarch  asleep  over  his  modest, 
blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the  public  into  his  private  cham-no 
ber  to  look  at  him.     Irving  could  only  live  very  modestly, 
because  the  wifeless,  childless  man  had  a  number  of  children 
to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.     He  had  as  many  as  nine  nieces, 
I  am  told  —  I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at  his  house  —  with 
all  of  whom  the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  115 
labour  and  genius. 

"Be  a  good  man,  my  dear."    One  can't  but  think  of  these 


372  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of  Letters,  who  had  tasted 
and  tested  the  value  of  worldly  success,  admiration,  pros- 

120perity.  Was  Irving  not  good,  and  of  his  works,  was  not 
his  life  the  best  part  ?  In  his  family,  gentle,  generous,  good- 
humoured,  affectionate,  self-denying :  in  society,  a  delight- 
ful example  of  complete  gentlemanhood ;  quite  unspoiled 
by  prosperity;    never  obsequious  to  the  great   (or,  worse 

125  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as  some  public  men  are  forced 
to  be  in  his  and  other  countries) ;  eager  to  acknowledge 
every  contemporary's  merit;  always  kind  and  affable  to 
the  young  members  of  his  calling;  in  his  professional  bar- 
gains and  mercantile  dealings  delicately  honest  and  grateful, 

130 one  of  the  most  charming  masters  of  our  lighter  language; 
the  constant  friend  to  us  and  our  nation ;  to  men  of  letters 
doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius  merely,  but  as  an 
exemplar  of  goodness,  probity,  and  pure  life ;  —  I  don't 
know  what  sort  of  testimonial  will  be  raised  to  him  in  his  own 

135  country,  where  generous  and  enthusiastic  acknowledgment 
of  American  merit  is  never  wanting ;  but  Irving  was  in  our 
service  as  well  as  theirs;  and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone 
at  Greenwich  yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant  young  Bellot, 
who  shared  the  perils  and  fate  of  some  of  our  Arctic  seamen, 

140 1  would  like  to  hear  of  some  memorial  raised  by  English 
writers  and  friends  of  letters  in  affectionate  remembrance 
of  the  dear  and  good  Washington  Irving. 

THOMAS   HENRY   HUXLEY 

» 
The  Method  of  Scientific  Investigation 

{From  Darwiniana:     "  The  Causes  of  the  Phenomena  of  Organic  Na- 
ture," III) 

The  method  of  scientific  investigation  is  nothing  but  the 
expression  of  the  necessary  mode  of  working  of  the  human 
mind.     It  is  simply  the  mode  at  which  all  phenomena  are 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY       373 

reasoned  about,  rendered  precise  and  exact.     There  is  no 
more  difference,  but  there  is  just  the  same  kind  of  difference,  5 
between  the  mental  operations  of  a  man  of  science  and  those 
of  an  ordinary  person,  as  there  is  between  the  operations 
and  methods  of  a  baker  or  of  a  butcher  weighing  out  his 
goods  in  common  scales,  and  the  operations  of  a  chemist 
in  performing  a  difficult  and  complex  analysis  by  means  of  10 
his  balance  and  finely  graduated  weights.     It  is  not  that 
the  action  of  the  scales  in  the  one  case,  and  the  balance  in 
the  other,  differ  in  the  principles  of  their  construction  or 
manner  of  working ;  but  the  beam  of  one  is  set  on  an  infinitely 
finer  axis  than  the  other,  and  of  course  turns  by  the  addition  15 
of  a  much  smaller  weight. 

You  will  understand  this  better,  perhaps,  if  I  give  you  some 
familiar  example.  You  have  all  heard  it  repeated,  I  dare 
say,  that  men  of  science  work  by  means  of  induction  and 
deduction,  and  that  by  the  help  of  these  operations,  they,  20 
in  a  sort  of  sense,  wring  from  Nature  certain  other  things, 
which  are  called  natural  laws,  and  causes,  and  that  out  of 
these,  by  some  cunning  skill  of  their  own,  they  build  up 
hypotheses  and  theories.  And  it  is  imagined  by  many, 
that  the  operations  of  the  common  mind  can  be  by  no  means  25 
compared  with  these  processes,  and  that  they  have  to  be 
acquired  by  a  sort  of  special  apprenticeship  to  the  craft. 
To  hear  all  these  large  words,  you  would  think  that  the  mind 
of  a  man  of  science  must  be  constituted  differently  from  that 
of  his  fellow  men ;  but  if  you  will  not  be  frightened  by  terms,  30 
you  will  discover  that  you  are  quite  wrong,  and  that  all  these 
terrible  apparatus  are  being  used  by  yourselves  every  day 
and  every  hour  of  your  lives. 

There  is  a  well-known  incident  in  one  of  Moliere's  plays, 
where  the  author  makes  the  hero  express  unbounded  delight  35 
on  being  told  that  he  had  been  talking  prose  during  the  whole 
of  his  life.     In  the  same  way,  I  trust,  that  you  will  take  com- 


374  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

fort,  and  be  delighted  with  yourselves,  on  the  discovery 
that  you  have  been  acting  on  the  principles  of  inductive 

40  and  deductive  philosophy  during  the  same  period.  Prob- 
ably there  is  not  one  here  who  has  not  in  the  course  of  the 
day  had  occasion  to  set  in  motion  a  complex  train  of  reason- 
ing, of  the  very  same  kind,  though  differing  of  course  in 
degree,  as  that  which  a  scientific  man  goes  through  in  tracing 

45  the  causes  of  natural  phenomena. 

A  very  trivial  circumstance  will  serve  to  exemplify  this. 
Suppose  you  go  into  a  fruiterer's  shop,  wanting  an  apple, 
—  you  take  up  one,  and,  on  biting  it,  you  find  it  is  sour; 
you  look  at  it,  and  see  that  it  is  hard  and  green.     You  take 

50  up  another  one,  and  that  too  is  hard,  green,  and  sour.  The 
shopman  offers  you  a  third;  but,  before  biting  it,  you  ex- 
amine it,  and  find  that  it  is  hard  and  green,  and  you  im- 
mediately say  that  you  will  not  have  it,  as  it  must  be  sour, 
like  those  that  you  have  already  tried. 

55  Nothing  can  be  more  simple  than  that,  you  think;  but 
if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  analyse  and  trace  out  into  its 
logical  elements  what  has  been  done  by  the  mind,  you  will 
be  greatly  surprised.  In  the  first  place  you  have  performed 
the  operation  of  induction.     You  found  that,  in  two  ex- 

eoperiences,  hardness  and  greenness  in  apples  went  together 
with  sourness.  It  was  so  in  the  first  case,  and  it  was  con- 
firmed by  the  second.  True,  it  is  a  very  small  basis,  but 
still  it  is  enough  to  make  an  induction  from ;  you  generalize 
the  facts,  and  you  expect  to  find  sourness  in  apples  where 

65  you  get  hardness  and  greenness.  You  found  upon  that  a 
general  law  that  all  hard  and  green  apples  are  sour ;  and  that, 
so  far  as  it  goes,  is  a  perfect  induction.  Well,  having  got 
your  natural  law  in  this  way,  when  you  are  offered  another 
apple  which  you  find  is  hard  and  green,  you  say,  "All  hard 

70 and  green  apples  are  sour;  this  apple  is  hard  and  green, 
therefore  this  apple  is  sour."     That  train  of  reasoning  is 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY        375 

what  logicians  call  a  syllogism,  and  has  all  its  various  parts 
and  terms,  —  its  major  premiss,  its  minor  premiss,  and  its 
conclusion.  And,  by  the  help  of  further  reasoning,  which 
if  drawn  out,  would  have  to  be  exhibited  in  two  or  three  75 
other  syllogisms,  you  arrive  at  your  final  determination, 
"I  will  not  have  that  apple."  So  that,  you  see,  you  have, 
in  the  first  place,  established  a  law  by  induction,  and  upon 
that  you  have  founded  a  deduction,  and  reasoned  out  the 
special  particular  case.  80 

Well  now,  suppose,  having  got  your  conclusion  of  the  law, 
that  at  some  time  afterwards,  you  are  discussing  the  qualities 
of  apples  with  a  friend :  you  will  say  to  him,  "  It  is  a  very 
curious  thing,  —  but  I  find  that  all  hard  and  green  apples  are 
sour ! "  Your  friend  says  to  you,  "  But  how  do  you  know  85 
that  ?  "  You  at  once  reply,  "  Oh,  because  I  have  tried  them 
over  and  over  again,  and  have  always  found  them  to  be  so." 
Well,  if  we  were  talking  science  instead  of  common  sense,  we 
should  call  that  an  experimental  verification.  And,  if  still 
opposed,  you  go  further,  and  say,  "  I  have  heard  from  the  90 
people  in  Somersetshire  and  Devonshire,  where  a  large  number 
of  apples  are  grown,  that  they  have  observed  the  same  thing. 
It  is  also  found  to  be  the  case  in  Normandy,  and  in  North 
America.  In  short,  I  find  it  to  be  the  universal  experience 
of  mankind  wherever  attention  has  been  directed  to  the  sub-  95 
ject."  Whereupon,  your  friend,  unless  he  is  a  very  un- 
reasonable man,  agrees  with  you,  and  is  convinced  that  you 
are  quite  right  in  the  conclusion  you  have  drawn.  He 
believes,  although  perhaps  he  does  not  know  he  believes 
it,  that  the  more  extensive  verifications  are,  —  that  the  100 
more  frequently  experiments  have  been  made,  and  results 
of  the  same  kind  arrived  at,  —  that  the  more  varied  the 
conditions  under  which  the  same  results  are  attained,  the 
more  certain  is  the  ultimate  conclusion,  and  he  disputes 
the  question  no  further.     He  sees  that  the  experiment  has  105 


376  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

been  tried  under  all  sorts  of  conditions,  as  to  time,  place, 
and  people,  with  the  same  result;  and  he  says  with  you, 
therefore,  that  the  law  you  have  laid  down  must  be  a  good 
one,  and  he  must  believe  it. 

110  In  science  we  do  the  same  thing;  —  the  philosopher 
exercises  precisely  the  same  faculties,  though  in  a  much 
more  delicate  manner.  In  scientific  inquiry  it  becomes 
a  matter  of  duty  to  expose  a  supposed  law  to  every  possible 
kind  of  verification,  and  to  take  care,  moreover,  that  this 

115  is  done  intentionally,  and  not  left  to  a  mere  accident,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  apples.  And  in  science,  as  in  common  life, 
our  confidence  in  a  law  is  in  exact  proportion  to  the  absence 
of  variation  in  the  result  of  our  experimental  verifications. 
For  instance,  if  you  let  go  your  grasp  of  an  article  you  may 

120  have  in  your  hand,  it  will  immediately  fall  to  the  ground. 
That  is  a  very  common  verification  of  one  of  the  best  estab- 
lished laws  of  nature  —  that  of  gravitation.  The  method 
by  which  men  of  science  establish  the  existence  of  that  law 
is  exactly  the  same  as  that  by  which  we  have  established 

125  the  trivial  proposition  about  the  sourness  of  hard  and  green 
apples.  But  we  believe  it  in  such  an  extensive,  thorough, 
and  unhesitating  manner  because  the  universal  experience 
of  mankind  verifies  it,  and  we  can  verify  it  ourselves  at  any 
time ;  and  that  is  the  strongest  possible  foundation  on  which 

130  any  natural  law  can  rest. 

So  much,  then,  by  way  of  proof  that  the  method  of  es- 
tablishing laws  in  science  is  exactly  the  same  as  that  pursued 
in  common  life.  Let  us  now  turn  to  another  matter  (though 
really  it  is  but  another  phase  of  the  same  question),  and  that 

135  is,  the  method  by  which,  from  the  relations  of  certain  phe- 
nomena, we  prove  that  some  stand  in  the  position  of  causes 
towards  the  others. 

I  want  to  put  the  case  clearly  before  you,  and  I  will  there- 
fore show  you  what  I  mean  by  another  familiar  example. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  377 

I  will  suppose  that  one  of  you,  on  coming  down  in  the  morning  140 
to  the  parlor  of  your  house,  finds  that  a  tea-pot  and  some 
spoons  which  had  been  left  in  the  room  on  the  previous 
evening  are  gone,  —  the  window  is  open,  and  you  observe 
the  mark  of  a  dirty  hand  on  the  window-frame,  and  perhaps, 
in  addition  to  that,  you  notice  the  impress  of  a  hob-nailed  145 
shoe  on  the  gravel  outside.     All  these  phenomena  have  struck 
your  attention  instantly,  and  before  two  seconds  have  passed 
you   say,    "Oh,   somebody  has   broken   open   the  window, 
entered  the  room,  and  run  off  with  the  spoons  and  the  tea- 
pot ! "     That  speech  is  out  of  your  mouth  in  a  moment.  150 
And  you  will  probably  add,  "  I  know  there  has ;   I  am  quite 
sure  of  it!"     You  mean  to  say  exactly  what  you  know; 
but  in  reality  you  are  giving  expression  to  what  is,  in  all 
essential  particulars,  an  hypothesis.     You  do  not  know  it 
at  all ;    it  is  nothing  but  an  hypothesis  rapidly  framed  in  155 
your  own  mind.     And  it  is  an  hypothesis  founded  on  a  long 
train  of  inductions  and  deductions. 

What  are  those  inductions  and  deductions,  and  how  have 
you  got  at  this  hypothesis?     You  have  observed  in  the 
first  place,  that  the  window  is  open,  but  by  a  train  of  reason-  leo 
ing  involving  many  inductions  and  deductions,  you  have 
probably  arrived  long  before  at  the  general  law  —  and  a 
very  good  one  it  is  —  that  windows  do  not  open  of  them-    ' 
selves  ;  and  you  therefore  conclude  that  something  has  opened 
the  window.     A  second  general  law  that  you  have  arrived  165 
at  in  the  same  way  is,  that  tea-pots  and  spoons  do  not  go 
out  of  a  window  spontaneously,  and  you  are  satisfied  that, 
as  they  are  not  now  where  you  left  them,  they  have  been 
removed.     In  the  third  place,  you  look  at  the  marks  on  the 
window-sill,  and  the  shoe-marks  outside,  and  you  say  that  170 
in  all  previous  experience  the  former  kind  of  a  mark  has 
never  been  produced  by  anything  else  but  the  hand  of  a 
human  being ;   and  the  same  experience  shows  that  no  other 


378  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

animal  but  man  at  present  wears  shoes  with  hob-nails  in 

175  them  such  as  would  produce  the  marks  in  the  gravel.  I 
do  not  know,  even  if  we  could  discover  any  of  those  "  missing 
links"  that  are  talked  about,  that  they  would  help  us  to 
any  other  conclusion !  At  any  rate  the  law  which  states 
our   present  experience  is  strong  enough   for  my  present 

180  purpose. 

You  next  reach  the  conclusion  that,  as  these  kind  of 
marks  have  not  been  left  by  any  other  animal  than  man, 
or  are  liable  to  be  formed  in  any  other  way  than  a  man's 
hand  and  shoe,  the  marks  in  question  have  been  formed 

185  by  a  man  in  that  way.  You  have,  further,  a  general  law, 
founded  on  observation  and  experience,  and  that,  too,  is, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  very  universal  and  unimpeachable  one, 
—  that  some  men  are  thieves ;  and  you  assume  at  once 
from  all   these  premisses  —  and    that  is  what    constitutes 

190  your  hypothesis  —  that  the  man  who  made  the  marks 
outside  and  on  the  window-sill,  opened  the  window,  got 
into  the  room,  and  stole  your  tea-pot  and  spoons.  You 
have  now  arrived  at  a  vera  cavsa;  —  you  have  assumed  a 
cause  which,  it  is  plain,  is  competent  to  produce  all  the  phe- 

195  nomena  you  have  observed.  You  can  explain  all  these 
phenomena  only  by  the  hypothesis  of  a  thief.  But  that  is 
a  hypothetical  conclusion,  of  the  justice  of  which  you  have 
no  absolute  proof  at  all ;  it  is  only  rendered  highly  probable 
by  a  series  of  inductive  and  deductive  reasonings. 

200  I  suppose  your  first  action,  assuming  that  you  are  a  man 
of  ordinary  common  sense,  and  that  you  have  established 
this  hypothesis  to  your  own  satisfaction,  will  very  likely 
be  to  go  off  for  the  police,  and  set  them  on  the  track  of  the 
burglar,  with  the  view  to  the  recovery  of  your  property. 

205  But  just  as  you  are  starting  with  this  object,  some  person 
comes  in,  and  on  learning  what  you  are  about,  says,  "My 
good  friend,  you  are  going  on  a  great  deal  too  fast.     How 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  379 

do  you  know  that  the  man  who  really  made  the  marks  took 
the  spoons  ?  It  might  have  been  a  monkey  that  took  them, 
and  the  man  may  have  merely  looked  in  afterwards."  2io 
You  would  probably  reply,  "Well,  that  is  all  very  well,  but 
you  see  it  is  contrary  to  all  experience  of  the  way  tea-pots 
and  spoons  are  abstracted ;  so  that,  at  any  rate,  your  hypoth- 
esis is  less  probable  than  mine."  While  you  are  talking 
the  thing  over  in  this  way,  another  friend  arrives,  one  of  the  215 
good  kind  of  people  that  I  was  talking  of  a  little  while  ago. 
And  he  might  say,  "Oh,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  certainly 
going  on  a  great  deal  too  fast.  You  are  most  presumptuous. 
You  admit  that  all  these  occurrences  took  place  when  you 
were  fast  asleep,  at  a  time  when  you  could  not  possibly  have  220 
known  anything  about  what  was  taking  place.  How  do 
you  know  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  not  suspended  during 
the  night?  It  may  be  that  there  has  been  some  kind  of 
supernatural  interference  in  this  case."  In  point  of  fact, 
he  declares  that  your  hypothesis  is  one  of  which  you  cannot  225 
at  all  demonstrate  the  truth,  and  that  you  are  by  no  means 
sure  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the  same  when  you  are 
asleep  as  when  you  are  awake. 

Well,  now,  you  cannot  at  the  moment  answer  that  kind 
of  reasoning.     You  feel  that  your  worthy  friend  has  you  230 
somewhat  at  a  disadvantage.     You  will  feel  perfectly  con- 
vinced in  your  own  mind,  however,  that  you  are  quite  right, 
and  you  say  to  him,  "My  good  friend,  I  can  only  be  guided 
by  the  natural  probabilities  of  the  case,  and  if  you  will  be 
kind  enough  to  stand  aside  and  permit  me  to  pass,  I  will  235 
go  and  fetch  the  police."     Well,  we  will  suppose  that  your 
journey  is  successful,  and  that  by  good  luck  you  meet  with 
a  policeman;    that  eventually  the  burglar  is  found  with 
your  property  on  his  person,  and  the  marks  correspond  to 
his  hand  and  to  his  boots.     Probably  any  jury  would  consider  240 
those  facts  a  very  good  experimental  verification  of  your 


380  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

hypothesis,  touching  the  cause  of  the  abnormal  phenomena 
observed  in  your  parlor,  and  would  act  accordingly. 

Now,  in  this  supposititious  case,  I  have  taken  phenomena 

245  of  a  very  common  kind,  in  order  that  you  might  see  what 
are  the  different  steps  in  an  ordinary  process  of  reasoning, 
if  you  will  only  take  the  trouble  to  analyse  it  carefully. 
All  the  operations  I  have  described,  you  will  see,  are  involved 
in  the  mind  of  any  man  of  sense  in  leading  him  to  a  con- 

250  elusion  as  to  the  course  he  should  take  in  order  to  make 
good  a  robbery  and  punish  the  offender.  I  say  that  you 
are  led,  in  that  case  to  your  conclusion  by  exactly  the  same 
train  of  reasoning  as  that  which  a  man  of  science  pursues 
when  he  is  endeavouring  to  discover  the  origin  and  laws  of 

255  the  most  occult  phenomena.  The  process  is,  and  always 
must  be,  the  same ;  and  precisely  the  same  mode  of  reason- 
ing was  employed  by  Newton  and  Laplace  in  their  endeavours- 
to  discover  and  define  the  causes  of  the  movements  of  the 
heavenly  bodies,   as  you,   with  your  own  common  sense, 

260  would  employ  to  detect  a  burglar.  The  only  difference  is, 
that  the  nature  of  the  inquiry  being  more  abstruse,  every 
step  has  to  be  most  carefully  watched,  so  that  there  may 
not  be  a  single  crack  or  flaw  in  your  hypothesis.  A  flaw 
or  crack  in  many  of  the  hypotheses  of  daily  life  may  be  of 

265  little  or  no  moment  as  affecting  the  general  correctness  of 
the  conclusions  at  which  we  may  arrive ;  but,  in  a  scientific 
inquiry,  a  fallacy,  great  or  small,  is  always  of  importance, 
and  is  sure  to  be  in  the  long  run  constantly  productive  of 
mischievous  if  not  fatal  results. 

270  Do  not  allow  yourselves  to  be  misled  by  the  common  notion 
that  an  hypothesis  is  untrustworthy  simply  because  it  is 
an  hypothesis.  It  is  often  urged,  in  respect  to  some  scien- 
tific conclusion,  that,  after  all,  it  is  only  an  hypothesis. 
But  what  more  have  we  to  guide  us  in  nine-tenths  of  the 

275  most  important  affairs  of  daily  life  than  hypotheses,  and 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY       381 

often  very  ill-based  ones?  So  that  in  science,  where  the 
evidence  of  an  hypothesis  is  subjected  to  the  most  rigid 
examination,  we  may  rightly  pursue  the  same  course.  You 
may  have  hypotheses,  and  hypotheses.  A  man  may  say, 
if  he  likes,  that  the  moon  is  made  of  green  cheese :  that  is  280 
an  hypothesis.  But  another  man,  who  has  devoted  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  attention  to  the  subject,  and  availed  himself 
of  the  most  powerful  telescopes  and  the  results  of  the  obser- 
vations of  others,  declares  that  in  his  opinion  it  is  probably 
composed  of  materials  very  similar  to  those  of  which  our  own  285 
earth  is  made  up :  and  that  is  also  only  an  hypothesis. 

But  I  need  not  tell  you  that  there  is  an  enormous  differ- 
ence in  the  value  of  the  two  hypotheses.     That  one  which  is 
based  on  sound  scientific  knowledge  is  sure  to  have  a  cor- 
responding value;    and  that  which  is  a  mere  hasty  random 290 
guess  is  likely  to  have  but  little  value.     Every  great  step 
in  our  progress  in  discovering  causes  has  been  made  in  ex- 
actly the  same  way  as  that  which  I  have  detailed  to  you. 
A   person   observing   the   occurrence   of   certain   facts   and 
phenomena    asks,    naturally    enough,    what   process,    what  295 
kind  of  operation  known  to  occur  in  Nature  applied  to  the 
particular    case,    will    unravel    and    explain    the   mystery? 
Hence  you  have  the  scientific  hypothesis;    and  its  value 
will  be  proportionate  to  the  care  and  completeness  with 
which  its  basis  had  been  tested  and  verified.     It  is  in  these  300 
matters  as  in  the  commonest  affairs  of  practical  life :   the 
guess  of  the  fool  will  be  folly,  while  the  guess  of  the  wise 
man  will  contain  wisdom.     In  all  cases,  you  see  that  the  value 
of  the  result  depends  on  the  patience  and  faithfulness  with 
which   the  investigator  applies    to    his    hypothesis    every  305 
possible  kind  of  verification. 


382  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

JOHN   RUSKIN 

On  Some  Lines  of  "Lycidas" 
{From  Sesame  and  Lilies) 

You  can  easily  ascertain  the  meanings  through  which  the 
English  word  has  passed ;  and  those  which  in  a  good  writer's 
work  it  must  still  bear.  And  now,  merely  for  example's  sake, 
I  will,  with  your  permission,  read  a  few  lines  of  a  true  book 
5  with  you,  carefully ;  and  see  what  will  come  out  of  them.  I 
will  take  a  book  perfectly  known  to  you  all ;  no  English 
words  are  more  familiar  to  us,  yet  nothing  perhaps  has  been 
less  read  with  sincerity.  I  will  take  these  few  following 
lines  of  Lycidas. 

10  "Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  : 
15  '  How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young  swain. 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
20  And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 

Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else,  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?  What  need  they  ?  They  are  sped ; 
25  And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 

But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 
30  Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said.'  " 


JOHN  RUSKIN  383 

Let  us  think  over  this  passage,  and  examine  its  words. 

First,  is  it  not  singular  to  find  Milton  assigning  to  St. 
Peter,  not  only  his  full  episcopal  function,  but  the  very  types 
of  it  which  Protestants  usually  refuse  most  passionately  ?  35 
His  "mitred"  locks!  Milton  was  no  Bishop-lover;  how 
comes  St.  Peter  to  be  "mitred?"  "Two  massy  keys  he 
bore."  Is  this,  then,  the  power  of  the  keys  claimed  by  the 
Bishops  of  Rome,  and  is  it  acknowledged  here  by  Milton 
only  in  a  poetical  licence,  for  the  sake  of  its  picturesqueness,  40 
that  he  may  get  the  gleam  of  the  golden  keys  to  help  his 
effect?  Do  not  think  it.  Great  men  do  not  play  stage 
tricks  with  doctrines  of  life  and  death :  only  little  men  do 
that.  Milton  means  what  he  says ;  and  means  it  with  his 
might  too  —  is  going  to  put  the  whole  strength  of  his  spirit  45 
presently  into  the  saying  of  it.  For  though  not  a  lover  of 
false  bishops,  he  was  a  lover  of  true  ones;  and  the  Lake- 
pilot  is  here,  in  his  thoughts,  the  type  and  head  of  true  epir*- 
copal  power.  For  Milton  reads  that  text,  "  I  will  give  unto 
thee  the  keys  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven"  quite  honestly.  50 

Puritan  though  he  be,  he  would  not  blot  it  out  of  the  book 
because  there  have  been  bad  bishops ;  nay,  in  order  to  under- 
stand him,  we  must  understand  that  verse  first ;  it  will  not 
do  to  eye  it  askance,  or  whisper  it  under  our  breath,  as  if  it 
were  a  weapon  of  an  adverse  sect.  It  is  a  solemn,  univer-55 
sal  assertion,  deeply  to  be  kept  in  mind  by  all  sects.  But 
perhaps  we  shall  be  better  able  to  reason  on  it  if  we  go  on  a 
little  farther,  and  come  back  to  it.  For  clearly,  this  marked 
insistence  on  the  power  of  the  true  episcopate  is  to  make  us 
feel  more  weightily  what  is  to  be  charged  against  the  false  60 
claimants  of  episcopate ;  or  generally,  against  false  claimants 
of  power  and  rank  in  the  body  of  the  clergy  ;  they  who,  "  for 
their  bellies'  sake,  creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold." 

Do  not  think  Milton  uses  those  three  words  to  fill  up  his 
verse,  as  a  loose  writer  would.       He  needs  all  the  three ;  65 


384  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

specially  those  three,  and  no  more  than  those  —  "  creep,"  and 
"  intrude,"  and  "  climb ; "  no  other  words  would  or  could 
serve  the  turn,  and  no  more  could  be  added.  For  they 
exhaustively  comprehend  the  three  classes,  correspondent  to 

70  the  three  characters,  of  men  who  dishonestly  seek  ecclesiasti- 
cal power.  First,  those  who  "creep"  into  the  fold ;  who  do 
not  care  for  office,  nor  name,  but  for  secret  influence,  and  do 
all  things  occultly  and  cunningly,  consenting  to  any  servility 
of  office  or  conduct,  so  only  that  they  may  intimately  discern, 

75  and  unawares  direct,  the  minds  of  men.  Then  those  who 
"intrude"  (thrust,  that  is)  themselves  into  the  fold,  who  by 
natural  insolence  of  heart,  and  stout  eloquence  of  tongue, 
and  fearlessly  perseverant  self-assertion,  obtain  hearing  and 
authority    with    the    common    crowd.     Lastly,    those   who 

80 "climb,"  who,  by  labour  and  learning,  both  stout  and  sound, 
but  selfishly  exerted  in  the  cause  of  their  own  ambition,  gain 
high  dignities  and  authorities,  and  become  "lords  over  the 
heritage,"  though  not  "ensamples  to  the  flock." 
Now  go  on  :  —  ' 

85  "Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearer's  feast. 
Blind  mouths  —  " 

I  pause  again,  for  this  is  a  strange  expression ;  a  broken 
metaphor,  one  might  think,  careless  and  unscholarly. 
90  Not  so :  its  very  audacity  and  pithiness  are  intended  to 
make  us  look  close  at  the  phrase  and  remember  it.  Those 
two  monosyllables  express  the  precisely  accurate  contraries 
of  right  character,  in  the  two  great  offices  of  the  Church  — 
those  of  bishop  and  pastor. 
95     A  Bishop  means  a  person  who  sees. 

A  Pastor  means  one  who  feeds. 

The  most  unbishoply  character  a  man  can  have  is  therefore 
to  be  Blind. 


JOHN  RUSKIN  385 

The  most  unpastoral  is,  instead  of  feeding,  to  want  to  be 
fed,  —  to  be  a  Mouth.  lOO 

Take  the  two  reverses  together,  and  you  have  "blind 
mouths."  We  may  advisably  follow  out  this  idea  a  little. 
Nearly  all  the  evils  in  the  Church  have  arisen  from  bishops 
desiring  -power  more  than  light.  They  want  authority,  not 
outlook.  Whereas  their  real  office  is  not  to  rule ;  though  it  105 
may  be  vigorously  to  exhort  and  rebuke;  it  is  the  king's 
office  to  rule ;  the  bishop's  office  is  to  oversee  the  flock ;  to 
number  it,  sheep  by  sheep ;  to  be  ready  alwaj^s  to  give  full 
account  of  it.  Now  it  is  clear  he  cannot  give  account  of  the 
souls,  if  he  has  not  so  much  as  numbered  the  bodies  of  his  no 
flock. 

The  first  thing,  therefore,  that  a  bishop  has  to  do  is  at 
least  to  put  himself  in  a  position  in  which,  at  any  moment, 
he  can  obtain  the  history  from  childhood  of  every  living  soul 
in  his  diocese,  and  of  its  present  state.  Down  in  that  back  115 
street,  Bill,  and  Nancy,  knocking  each  other's  teeth  out  ?  — 
Does  the  bishop  know  all  about  it?  Has  he  his  eye  upon 
them?  Has  he  had  his  eye  upon  them?  Can  he  circum- 
stantially explain  to  us  how  Bill  got  into  the  habit  of  beating 
Nancy  about  the  head  ?  If  he  cannot,  he  is  no  bishop  120 
though  he  had  a  mitre  as  high  as  Salisbury  steeple ;  he  is  no 
bishop,  —  he  has  sought  to  be  at  the  helm  instead  of  the 
masthead ;  he  has  no  sight  of  things.  "Nay,"  you  say,  it  is 
not  his  duty  to  look  after  Bill  in  the  back  street.  W^hat ! 
the  fat  sheep  that  have  full  fleeces  —  you  think  it  is  only  those  125 
he  should  look  after,  while  (go  back  to  your  Milton)  "the 
hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed,  besides  what  the  grim 
wolf,  with  privy  paw"  (bishops  knowing  nothing  about  it) 
"daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said?" 

"  But  that's  not  our  idea  of  a  bishop."    Perhaps  not ;  but  130 
it  was  St.  Paul's ;  and  it  was  Milton's.     They  may  be  right, 
or  we  may  be;    but  we  must  not  think  we  are  reading 


386  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

either  one  or  the  other  by  putting  our  meaning  into  their 
words. 
135     I  go  on. 

"  But,  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw." 

This  is  to  meet  the  vulgar  answer  that  "  if  the  poor  are  not 
looked  after  in  their  bodies,  they  are  in  their  souls;  they 
have  spiritual  food." 

140  And  Milton  says,  "They  have  no  such  thing  as  spiritual 
food ;  they  are  only  swollen  with  wind."  At  first  you  may 
think  that  is  a  coarse  type,  and  an  obscure  one.  But  again, 
it  is  a  quite  literally  accurate  one.  Take  up  your  Latin  and 
Greek  dictionaries,  and  find  out  the  meaning  of  "spirit." 

145 It  is  only  a  contraction  of  the  Latin  word  "breath,"  and  an 
indistinct  translation  of  the  Greek  word  for  "wind."  The 
same  word  is  used  in  writing,  "The  wind  bloweth  where  it 
listeth ; "  and  in  writing,  "  So  is  every  one  that  is  born  of  the 
Spirit ;"   born  of  the  breath,  that  is;   for  it  means  the  breath 

150  of  God,  in  soul  and  body. 

We  have  the  true  sense  of  it  in  our  words  "inspiration" 
and  "expire."  Now,  there  are  two  kinds  of  breath  with 
which  the  flock  may  be  filled;  God's  breath,  and  man's. 
The  breath  of  God  is  health,  and  life,  and  peace  to   them, 

155  as  the  air  of  heaven  is  to  the  flocks  on  the  hills ;  but  man's 
breath  —  the  word  which  he  calls  spiritual,  —  is  disease 
and  contagion  to  them,  as  the  fog  of  the  fen.  They  rot  in- 
wardly with  it ;  they  are  puffed  up  by  it,  as  a  dead  body  by 
the  vapours  of  its  own  decomposition.     This  is  literally  true 

160  of  all  false  religious  teaching ;  the  first,  and  last,  and  f atalest 
sign  of  it  is  that  "puffing  up."  Your  converted  children, 
who  teach  their  parents ;  your  converted  convicts,  who  teach 
honest  men;  your  converted  dunces,  who,  having  lived  in 
cretinous  stupefaction  half  their  lives,    suddenly   awaking 

165  to  the  fact  of  there  being  a  God,  fancy  themselves  therefore 


JOHN  RUSKIN  387 

His  peculiar  people  and  messengers;  your  sectarians  of 
every  species,  small  and  great,  Catholic  or  Protestant,  of  high 
church  or  low,  in  so  far  as  they  think  themselves  exclusively 
in  the  right  and  others  wrong ;  and  pre-eminently,  in  every 
sect,  those  who  hold  that  men  can  be  saved  by  thinking  170 
rightly  instead  of  doing  rightly,  by  word  instead  of  act,  and 
wish  instead  of  work :  —  these  are  the  true  fog  children  — 
clouds,  these,  without  water;  bodies,  these,  of  putrescent 
vapour  and  skin,  without  blood  or  flesh :  blown  bag-pipes 
for  the  fiends  to  pipe  with  —  corrupt,  and  corrupting,  — 175 
"Swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw." 

Lastly,  let  us  return  to  the  lines  respecting  the  power  of 
the  keys,  for  now  we  can  understand  them.  Note  the  differ- 
ence between  Milton  and  Dante  in  their  interpretation  of  this 
power :  for  once,  the  latter  is  weaker  in  thought ;  he  sup-  180 
poses  both  the  keys  to  be  of  the  gate  of  heaven;  one  is  of 
gold,  the  other  of  silver :  they  are  given  by  St.  Peter  to  the 
sentinel  angel ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  the  meaning 
either  of  the  substances  of  the  three  steps  of  the  gate,  or  of 
the  two  keys.  But  Milton  makes  one,  of  gold,  the  key  of  185 
heaven ;  the  other,  of  iron,  the  key  of  the  prison,  in  which 
the  wicked  teachers  are  to  be  bound  who  "  have  taken  away 
the  key  of  knowledge,  yet  entered  not  in  themselves." 

We  have  seen  that  the  duties  of  bishop  and  pastor  are  to 
see,  and  feed ;  and,  of  all  who  do  so,  it  is  said,  "  He  that  190 
watereth,  shall  be  watered  also  himself."  But  the  reverse  is 
truth  also.  He  that  watereth  not,  shall  be  withered  himself, 
and  he  that  seeth  not,  shall  himself  be  shut  out  of  sight,  — 
shut  into  the  perpetual  prison-house.  And  that  prison  opens 
here,  as  well  as  hereafter :  he  who  is  to  be  bound  in  heaven  195 
must  first  be  bound  on  earth.  That  command  to  the  strong 
angels,  of  which  the  rock-apostle  is  the  image,  "Take  him, 
and  bind  him  hand  and  foot,  and  cast  him  out,"  issues,  in  its 
measure,  against  the  teacher,  for  every  help  withheld,  and  for 


388  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

200 every  truth  refused,  and  for  every  falsehood  enforced;  so 
that  he  is  more  strictly  fettered  the  more  he  fetters,  and 
farther  outcast,  as  he  more  and  more  misleads,  till  at  last  the 
bars  of  the  iron  cage  close  upon  him,  and  as  "the  golden 
opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain." 

205  We  have  got  something  out  of  the  lines,  I  think,  and  much 
more  is  yet  to  be  found  in  them ;  but  we  have  done  enough 
by  way  of  example  of  the  kind  of  word-by-word  examina- 
tion of  your  author  which  is  rightly  called  "reading;" 
watching  every  accent  and  expression,  and  putting  ourselves 

210  always  in  the  author's  place,  annihilating  our  own  person- 
ality, and  seeking  to  enter  into  his,  so  as  to  be  able  assuredly 
to  say,  "Thus  Milton  thought,"  not  "Thus  I  thought,  in 
mis-reading  Milton."  And  by  this  process  you  will  gradually 
come  to  attach  less  weight  to  your  own  "Thus  I  thought"  at 

215  other  times.  You  will  begin  to  perceive  that  what  you 
thought  was  a  matter  of  no  serious  importance ;  —  that  your 
thoughts  on  any  subject  are  not  perhaps  the  clearest  and 
wisest  that  could  be  arrived  at  thereupon :  —  in  fact,  that 
unless  you  are  a  very  singular  person,  you  cannot  be  said  to 

220 have  any  "thoughts"  at  all ;  that  you  have  no  materials  for 
them,  in  any  serious  matter ;  ^  —  no  right  to  "  think,"  but  only 
to  try  to  learn  more  of  the  facts. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

A  Definition  of  Culttire 
(From  Culture  and  Anarchy :  Chap.  I,  "  Sweetness  and  Light  ") 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive  curiosity; 
sometimes,  indeed,  they  make  its  motive  mere  exclusiveness 
and  vanity.     The  culture  which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself 

1  Modern  "Education"  for  the  most  part  signifies  giving  people  the 
faculty  of  thinking  wrong  on  every  conceivable  subject  of  importance 
to  them.     [Ruskin's  note.] 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  389 

on  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a  culture  which  is 
begotten  by  nothing  so  intellectual  as  curiosity ;  it  is  valued  5 
either  out  of  sheer  vanity  and  ignorance  on  else  as  an  engine 
of  social  and  class  distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like  a 
badge  or  title,  from  other  people  who  have  not  got  it.  No 
serious  man  would  call  this  culture,  or  attach  any  value  to 
it,  as  culture,  at  all.  To  find  the  real  ground  for  the  very  10 
different  estimate  which  serious  people  will  set  upon  culture, 
we  must  find  some  motive  for  culture  in  the  terms  of  which 
may  lie  a  real  ambiguity;  and  such  a  motive  the  word 
curiosity  gives  us. 

I  have  before  now  pointed  out  that  we  English  do  not,  15 
like  the  foreigners,  use  this  word  in  a  good  sense  as  well  as 
in  a  bad  sense.     With  us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a  some- 
what disapproving  sense.     A  liberal  and  intelligent  eager- 
ness about  the  things  of  the  mind  may  be  meant  by  a  foreigner 
when  he  speaks  of  curiosity,  but  with  us  the  word  always  20 
conveys  a  certain  notion  of  frivolous  and  unedifying  activ- 
ity.    In  the  Quarterly  Review,  some  little  time  ago,  was  an 
estimate  of  the  celebrated  French  critic,  M.  Sainte-Beuve, 
and  a  very  inadequate  estimate  it  in  my  judgment  was. 
And  its  inadequacy  consisted  in  this ;    that  in  our  English  25 
way  it  left  out  of  sight  the  double  sense  really  involved  in  the 
word  curiosity,  thinking  enough  was  said  to  stamp  M.  Sainte- 
Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was  said  that  he  was  impelled  in  his 
operations  as  a  critic  by  curiosit^^  and  omitting  either  to 
perceive  that  M.    Sainte-Beuve   himself,    and   many   other  30 
people  with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy 
and  not  blameworthy,  or  to  point  out  why  it  ought  really 
to  be  accounted  worthy  of  blame  and  not  of  praise.     For  as 
there  is  a  curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is  futile, 
and  merely  a  disease,  so  there  is  certainly  a  curiosity,  —  a  35 
desire  after  the  things  of  the  mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes 
and  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  as  they  are,  —  which  is. 


390  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and  laudable.     Nay,  and  the 
very  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are  implies  a  balance  and 

40  regulation  of  min^  which  is  not  often  attained  without  fruit- 
ful effort,  and  which  is  the  very  opposite  of  the  blind  and 
diseased  impulse  of  mind  which  is  what  we  mean  to  blame 
when  we  blame  curiosity.  Montesquieu  says :  "  The  first 
motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to  study  is  the  desire  to 

45  augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to  render  an 
intelligent  being  yet  more  intelligent."  This  is  the  true 
ground  to  assign  for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however 
manifested,  and  for  culture,  viewed  simply  as  a  fruit  of  this 
passion ;   and  it  is  a  worthy  ground,  even  though  we  let  the 

50  term  curiosity  stand  to  describe  it. 

But  there  is  of  culture  another  view,  in  which  not  solely 
the  scientific  passion,  the  sheer  desire  to  see  things  as  they 
are,  natural  and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being,  appears  as 
the  ground  of  it.     There  is  a  view  in  which  all  the  love  of 

55  our  neighbour,  the  impulses  towards  action,  help,  and  be- 
neficence, the  desire  for  removing  human  error,  clearing 
human  confusion,  and  diminishing  human  misery,  the  noble 
aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better  and  happier  than  we 
found  it,  —  motives  eminently  such  as  are  called  social,  — 

60  come  in  as  part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the  main  and 
preeminent  part.  Culture  is  then  properly  described  not 
as  having  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but  as  having  its  origin  in 
the  love  of  perfection ;  it  is  a  study  of  perfection .  It  moves 
by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  passion 

65  for  pure  knowledge,  but  also  for  the  moral  and  social  passion 
for  doing  good.  As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for  its 
worthy  motto  Montesquieu's  words :  "  To  render  an  intel- 
ligent being  yet  more  intelligent!"  so,  in  the  second  view  of 
it,  there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  have  than  these 

70  words  of  Bishop  Wilson :  "  To  make  reason  and  the  will  of 
God  prevail!" 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  391 

Estimate  of  Emerson 
(From  Discourses  in  America :  "  Emerson  ") 

Forty  years  ago,  when  I  was  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford, 
voices  were  in  the  air  there  which  haunt  my  memory  still. 
Happy  the  man  who  in  that  susceptible  season  of  youth 
hears  such  voices !  they  are  a  possession  to  him  for  ever. 
No  such  voices  as  those  which  we  heard  in  our  youth  at  5 
Oxford  are  sounding  there  now.  Oxford  has  more  criti- 
cism now,  more  knowledge,  more  light;  but  such  voices 
as  those  of  our  youth  it  has  no  longer.  The  name  of  Cardi- 
nal Newman  is  a  great  name  to  the  imagination  still;  his 
genius  and  his  style  are  still  things  of  power.  But  he  has  lo 
adopted,  for  the  doubts  and  difficulties  which  beset  men's 
minds  to-day,  a  solution  which,  to  speak  frankly,  is  impos- 
sible. Forty  years  ago  he  was  in  the  very  prime  of  life ;  he 
was  close  at  hand  to  us  at  Oxford ;  he  was  preaching  in  St. 
Mary's  pulpit  every  Sunday ;  he  seemed  about  to  transform  15 
and  to  renew  what  was  for  us  the  most  national  and  natural 
institution  in  the  world,  the  Church  of  England.  Who 
could  resist  the  charm  of  that  spiritual  apparition,  gliding 
in  the  dim  afternoon  light  through  the  aisles  of  St.  Mary's, 
rising  into  the  pulpit,  and  then,  in  the  most  entrancing  of  20 
voices,  breaking  the  silence  with  words  and  thoughts  which 
were  a  religious  music,  —  subtle,  sweet,  mournful !  I  seem 
to  hear  him  still.  Or,  if  we  followed  him  back  to  his  seclu- 
sion at  Littlemore,  that  dreary  village  by  the  London  road, 
who  could  resist  him  there  either,  welcoming  back  to  the  25 
severe  joys  of  church-fellowship,  and  of  daily  worship  and 
prayer,  the  firstlings  of  a  generation  which  had  well-nigh 
forgotten  them? 

But  there  were  other  voices  sounding  in  our  ear  besides 
Newman's.     There  was  the  puissant  voice  of  Carlyle ;    then  30 
fresh,  comparatively  sound,  and  reaching  our  hearts  with 


392  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

true,  pathetic  eloquence.  A  greater  voice  still,  —  the  great- 
est voice  of  the  century,  —  came  to  us  in  those  youthful 
years  through  Carlyle :    the  voice  of  Goethe.     The  large, 

35  liberal  view  of  human  life  in  Wilhelm  Meister,  how  novel 
it  was  to  the  Englishman  in  those  days !  and  it  was  salutary, 
too,  and  educative  for  him,  doubtless,  as  well  as  novel. 

And  besides  those  voices,  there  came  to  us  in  that  old 
Oxford  time  a  voice  also  from  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  — 

40  a  clear  and  pure  voice,  which  for  my  ear,  at  any  rate,  brought 
a  strain  as  new,  and  moving,  and  unforgettable,  as  the  strain 
of  Newman,  or  Carlyle,  or  Goethe.  Mr.  Lowell  has  well 
described  the  apparition  of  Emerson  to  your  young  genera- 
tion here,  in  that  distant  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and 

45  of  his  workings  upon  them.  He  was  your  Newman,  your 
man  of  soul  and  genius  visible  to  you  in  the  flesh,  speaking 
to  your  bodily  ears,  a  present  object  for  your  heart  and 
imagination.  That  is  surely  the  most  potent  of  all  influences  ! 
nothing  can  come  up  to  it.     To  us  at  Oxford  Emerson  was 

50  but  a  voice  speaking  from  three  thousand  miles  away.  But 
so  well  he  spoke,  that  from  that  time  forth  Boston  Bay  and 
Concord  were  names  invested  to  my  ear  with  a  sentiment 
akin  to  that  which  invests  for  me  the  names  of  Oxford  and 
of  Weimar;    and  snatches  of  Emerson's  strain  fixed  them- 

55  selves  as  imperishably  in  my  mind  as  any  of  the  eloquent 
words  which  I  have  been  just  now  quoting.  "Then  dies 
the  man  in  you;  then  once  more  perish  the  buds  of  art, 
poetry,  and  science  as  they  have  died  already  in  a  thousand 
thousand  men."     "What  Plato  has  thought,  he  may  think; 

60  what  a  saint  has  felt,  he  may  feel ;  what  at  any  time  has 
befallen  any  man,  he  can  understand."  "Trust  thyself! 
every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string.  Accept  the  place 
the  Divine  Providence  has  found  for  you,  the  society  of  your 
contemporaries,  the  connexion  of  events.     Great  men  have 

65  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves  childlike  to  the 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  393 

genius  of  their  age;  betraying  their  perception  that  the 
Eternal  was  stirring  at  their  heart,  working  through  their 
hands,  predominating  in  all  their  being.  And  we  are  now 
men,  and  must  accept  in  the  highest  spirit  the  same  tran- 
scendent destiny ;  and  not  pinched  in  a  corner,  not  cowards  70 
fleeing  before  a  revolution,  but  redeemers  and  benefactors, 
pious  aspirants  to  be  noble  clay  plastic  under  the  Almighty 
effort,  let  us  advance  and  advance  on  chaos  and  the  dark!" 
These  lofty  sentences  of  Emerson,  and  a  hundred  others  of 
like  strain,  I  have  never  lost  out  of  my  memory ;  I  never  75 
can  lose  them. 


We  have  not  in  Emerson  a  great  poet,  a  great  writer,  a 
great  philosophy-maker.     His  relation  to  us  is  not  that  of 
one  of  those  personages ;    yet  it  is  a  relation"  of,  I  think, 
even  superior  importance.     His  relation  to  us  is  more  like  80 
that   of   the   Roman   Emperor   Marcus   Aurelius.     Marcus 
Aurelius  is  not  a  great  writer,  a  great  philosophy-maker; 
he  is  the  friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the 
spirit.     Emerson  is  the  same.     He  is  the  friend  and  aider 
of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit.     All  the  points  in  think-  85 
ing  which  are  necessary  for  this  purpose  he  takes,  but  he  does 
not  combine  them  into  a  system,  or  present  them  as  a  regular 
philosophy.     Combined  in   a  system  by  a  man  with  the 
requisite  talent  for  this  kind  of  thing,  they  would  be  less 
useful  than  as  Emerson  gives  them  to  us ;    and  the  man  90 
with  the  talent  so  to  systematise  them  would  be  less  impres- 
sive then  Emerson.     They  do  very  well  as  they  now  stand ; 
like  "boulders,"  as  he  says;   in  "paragraphs  incompressible, 
each   sentence   an   infinitely   repellent   particle."     In    such 
sentences  his  main  points  recur  again  and  again,  and  become  95 
fixed  in  the  memory. 


394  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Happiness  in  labour,  righteousness,  and  veracity;  in 
all  the  life  of  the  spirit ;  happiness  and  eternal  hope ;  — 
that  was  Emerson's  gospel.     I  hear   it  said  that  Emerson 

100 was  too  sanguine;  that  the  actual  generation  in  America 
is  not  turning  out  so  well  as  he  expected.  Very  likely  he 
was  too  sanguine  as  to  the  near  future ;  in  this  country  it  is 
difficult  not  to  be  too  sanguine.  Very  possibly  the  present 
generation  may  prove  unworthy  of  his  high  hopes ;    even 

105  several  generations  succeeding  this  may  prove  unworthy 
of  them.  But  by  his  conviction  that  in  the  life  of  the  spirit 
is  happiness,  and  by  his  hope  that  this  life  of  the  spirit  will 
come  more  and  more  to  be  sanely  understood,  and  to  pre- 
vail, and  to  work  for  happiness,  —  by  this  conviction  and 

110  hope  Emerson  was  great,  and  he  will  surely  prove  in  the  end 
to  have  been  right  in  them.  In  this  country  it  is  difficult, 
as  I  said,  not  to  be  sanguine.  Very  many  of  your  writers 
are  over-sanguine,  and  on  the  wrong  grounds.  But  you 
have  two  men   who  in  what   they  have  written  show  their 

ll5sanguineness  in  a  line  where  courage  and  hope  are  just, 
where  they  are  also  infinitely  important,  but  where  they  are 
not  easy.     The  two  men  are  Franklin  and  Emerson.^     These 

'  I  found  with  pleasure  that  this  conjunction  of  Emerson's  name 
with  Franklin's  had  already  occurred  to  an  accomplished  writer  and 
delightful  man,  a  friend  of  Emerson,  left  almost  the  sole  survivor,  alas !  of 
the  famous  literary  generation  of  Boston,  —  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
Dr.  Holmes  has  kindly  allowed  me  to  print  here  the  ingenious  and  interest- 
ing lines,  hitherto  unpublished,  in  which  he  speaks  of  Emerson  thus :  — 

"  Where  in  the  realm  of  thought,  whose  air  is  song, 
Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West  belong  ? 
He  seems  a  wingfed  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 
Born  to  unlock  the  secret  of  the  skies ; 
And  which  the  nobler  calling  —  if  'tis  fair 
Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare  — 
To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  flame, 
Or  walk  the  chambers  whence  the  lightning  came 
Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 
And  steal  their  eflBuence  for  his  lips  and  lyre  ?  " 

[Arnold's  note.] 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  395 

two  are,  I  think,  the  most  distinctively  and  honourably 
American  of  your  writers ;  they  are  the  most  original  and  the 
most  valuable.  120 


.    Shakespeare 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask  —  Thou  sniilest  and  art  still, 

Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 

Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty. 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea,  5 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 

Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 

To  the  foileil  searching  of  mortality ; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 

Self -schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored,  self-secure,  10 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at.  —  Better  so  1 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 


Memorial  Verses 
April,  1850 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 

Long  since,  saw  BjTon's  struggle  cease. 

But  one  such  death  remained  to  come ; 

The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb  — 

We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb.  5 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death. 

We  bowed  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 

He  taught  us  little ;  but  our  soul 

Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 

With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw  10 


396  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Of  passion  with  eternal  law ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

16  When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said : 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 
Physician  of  the  iron  age, 
Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 
He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

20  He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear; 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place. 
And  said  :    Thou  ailest  here,  and  here  ! 
He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 
Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power ; 

26  His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  — 
He  said  :    The  end  is  everywhere. 
Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there! 
And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

30  Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 
Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 
And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !  —  Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice  I 
35  For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 

Been  to  your  shadowy  world  conveyed. 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
40  Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye, 

Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we ! 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen  —  on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
45  He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 

Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round ; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  397 

He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 

He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 

On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 

Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease ;  60 

The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 

Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again ; 

Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 

Our  youth  returned ;  for  there  was  shed 

On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead,  55 

Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 

Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 

Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course  60 

Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force ; 

But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 

Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power? 

Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare. 

And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ;  65 

Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 

But  who,  ah  !  who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 

The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny. 

Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 

But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ?  70 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave ! 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 


Requiescat 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew  1 

In  quiet  she  reposes ; 

Ah,  would  that  I  did  too ! 


398  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

5  Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  hCT  heart  was  tired,  tired. 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
10  In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound ; 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning. 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabined,  ample  spirit. 
It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath ; 
15  To-night  it  doth  inherit 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


The  Fall  of  Sohrab 
iProm  Sohrab  and  Rustom) 

He  spdce,  and  Rustum  answered  not,  but  hurled 
Hb  fipeax',  down  fttm  the  dbouldCT,  down  it  came 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  com  a  hftwk 
That  long  has  towoed  in  the  «ry  douds 

5        Drops  like  a  plummet ;  Scdirab  saw  it  conoe, 
And  spniDg  aside,  quidc  as  a  flash :  the  spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  Asyrtn  intr>  the  sand, 
Which  it  sent  flying  wide ;  —  then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  «id  full  strudk  Rustum 's  frfiidd ;  sharp  rang, 

10        The  trcm  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  ihe  spear. 
And  Rtistum  sozed  his  dub,  which  none  but  he 
Could  widd :  an  vaAoppeA  trunk  it  was,  ami  huge, 
SdU  rou|^  —  like  those  wfaich  vaen  in  treeless  plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  frrjm  the  flooded  riven, 

15         Hyirfuuis  or  Hydaqies,  when,  high  up 

By  thdr  dark  springs,  the  frind  in  wintertime 
Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wnuk. 
And  strewn  the  cfaannds  with  torn  boun^  —  so  huge 
The  dub  wlack  Rtistum  lifted  now,  and  struck 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  399 

One  stroke ;  but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside,  20 

Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club  came 

Thundering  to  earth,  and  leajjed  from  Rustum's  hand. 

And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and  fell 

To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched  the  sand. 

And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed  his  sword,  25 

And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustimi  while  he  lay 

Dix^',  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with  sand ; 

But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared  his  sword. 

But  ci^iu-teously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and  said  :  — 

"Thou  strikest  too  hanl !  that  club  of  thine  will  float  30 

Upon  the  simimer-floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth !  not  wroth  am  I ; 
No.  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 
Thou  sa\-st  thou  art  not  Rustum  :  be  it  so. 

\\'ho  art  thou  then,  tliat  canst  so  touch  my  soul?  35 

Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too  — 
Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves. 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dj-ing  men ; 
But  never  was  mj'  heart  thus  touched  befcwe. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  c^  the  heart  ?  40 

O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  jneld  to  Heaven ! 
Come,  plant  \s-e  here  in  earth  our  angr\'  sjjears. 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand. 
And  pleilge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends, 
.\ntl  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's  deeds.  -to 

There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host, 
VNliom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no  pang; 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 
Ma>.*st  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  confrcmt  thy  spe«r! 
But  oh.  let  therebepeAce'twixttheeandme!''  SO 

He  ceaseil :  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum  had  risca. 
And  stootl  erect,  trembling  with  T«ge :  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  ha*l  regained  his  spear. 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right-hand 
BUaed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn-star,  v'o 

The  balelul  sign  of  fevers :  dust  had  soiled 


400  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering  arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foamed,  and  twice  his  voice 
Was  choked  with  rage :  at  last  these  words  broke  way  : 

60  "Girl  I  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy  hands ! 

Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words ! 
Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more  I 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont  to  dance ; 

65         But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war ;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine  1 
Remember  all  thy  valor  :  try  thy  feints 

70         And  cunning !  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone ; 

Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both  the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy  girl's  wiles." 

He  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts. 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword  :  at  once  they  rushed 

75         Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 

Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds. 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west ;  their  shields 
Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 

80         Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 

Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees  —  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took  part 
In  that  unnatural  conflict ;  for  a  cloud 

85         Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  darked  the  sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads ;   and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain. 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wTapped  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and  they  alone ; 

90         For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 

Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure. 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 

But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot  eyes 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  401 

And  laboring  breath ;  first  Rustum  struck  the  shield 
Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out ;  the  steel-spiked  spear  95 

Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach  the  skin. 
And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry  groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum's  helm, 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through ;  but  all  the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horse-hair  plume,  100 

Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head ;  but  then  the  gloom 
Grew  blacker,  thunder  rmnbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud ;  and  Ruksh,  the  horse. 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry ;  —  105 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 

The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked  for  fear,  110 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but  rushed  on. 
And  struck  again ;  and  again  Rustum  bowed 
His  head ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass. 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm,  115 

And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ;  his  dreadful  eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing  spear. 
And  shouted,  Rustum  !  —  Sohrab  heard  that  shout. 
And  shrank  amazed  :  back  he  recoiled  one  step,  120 

And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing  form ; 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered ;   and  he  dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced  his  side. 
He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to  the  ground ; 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind  fell,  125 

And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud  ;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair  — 
Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet. 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 
Then  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began :  —  130 


402  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 
A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse. 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 

135         Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame. 
To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 

140         Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man  1 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied  :  — 
"Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 

145         Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man  I 
No !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as  thee, 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was. 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 

150         But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee. 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
Fall ;  and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insultest  my  fate. 

165         But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear ! 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death  ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee  1" 

Dover  Beach 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 
The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 
Upon  the  straits ;  —  on  the  French  coast  the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone ;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 
5         Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air  I 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  403 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray- 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  land. 
Listen !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling,  10 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago  15 

Heard  it  on  the  Mgean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought. 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea.  20 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  fiu-led. 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar,  25 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another !  for  the  world,  which  seems  30 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new. 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain  35 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


404  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Geist's  Grave 

Four  years !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four  ? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love. 
Were  crowded,  Geist  I  into  no  more  ? 

6  Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 

Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
10  Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span. 

To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal. 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
15  Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry, 

The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 
By  spirits  gloriously  gay. 
And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 
20  What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 

Yes,  only  four !  —  and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come. 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  nature,  with  her  countless  smn 

25  Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 

Of  new  creation  evermore. 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot  I 
30  Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear. 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  405 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 

On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 

A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw,  36 

And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart  — 

Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene, 

Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 

And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been.  40 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now ; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  sv£h  looks  hadst  thou  I 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again,  45 

We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane. 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair ; 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 

Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go ;  60 

Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 

Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 

Who  mom-n  thee  in  thine  English  home ; 

Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear,  65 

Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there. 

And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 

And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care ! 

In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee.  60 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame. 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  om*  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name. 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 


406  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

65  We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 

Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 

Between  the  holly  and  the. beech. 

Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form. 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
70  To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road ;  — 

There  choose  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode ! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass. 
When  we  too,  like  thy  self,  are  clay, 
75  Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass. 

And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 
Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 
To  name  for  futtire  times  to  know 
80  The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


ALFRED,   LORD    TENNYSON 

Ulysses  on  Old  Age 

(From  Ulysses) 

There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail ; 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with  me. 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
5       The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads,  —  you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil. 
Death  closes  all ;  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
10       Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks ; 
The  long  day  wanes ;  the  slow  moon  climbs ;  the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  407 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite  15 

The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down ; 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles,  20 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  though 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts,  25 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


{From  In  Memoriam) 
I 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 

To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones. 

That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years  5 

And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
•     Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 
The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd. 

Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss :  10 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss. 
To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground. 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 

The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 

"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost,  15 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


408  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


XXVII 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 
20  That  never  knew  the  summer  woods : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  Hcense  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

25  Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest. 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth ; 
Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 
30  I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


cvi 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
35  The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die- 
Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 
40  Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor ; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  409 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause,  45 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ;  50 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right,  65 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shap>es  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  p>eace.  60 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cxxx 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ;  65 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess ; 

But  tho*  I  seem  in  star  and  flower  70 

To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 
I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou,  76 

I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


410  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice ; 
I  prosper,  circled  vnih  thy  voice ; 
80  I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead 

{From  The  Princess) 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry  : 
AH  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

5  Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low. 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
10  Lightly  to  the  warrior  stepped, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 
15  Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 

"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Geraint's  Strange  Petition 
(From  Idylls  of  the  King :  "  The  Marriage  of  Geraint  ") 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced,  Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall,  and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
5  In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 

His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  Queen, 
He  answer'd :   "Earl,  entreat  her  by  my  love, 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  411 

Albeit  I  give  no  reason  for  my  wish. 

That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 

Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went ;  it  fell  10 

Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn  : 

For  Enid,  all  abash'd  she  knew  not  why,  * 

Dare  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's  face, 

But  silently,  in  all  obedience. 

Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her,  15 

Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd  gift, 

And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again. 

And  so  descended.     Never  man  rejoiced 

TMore  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  attired ; 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her  20 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall, 

But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied ; 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's  brow, 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweetly  said  :  25 

"O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or  grieved 
At  thy  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so  sweet. 
Made  promise  that,  whatever  bride  I  brought,  30 

Herself  wovdd  clothe  her  like  the  sun  in  heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd  hall, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that,  could  I  gain  her,  our  fair  Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your  Enid  burst  35 

Sunlike  from  cloud  —  and  likewise  thought  perhaps. 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together ;  fain  I  would  the  two 
Should  love  each  other  :  how  can  Enid  find 
A  nobler  friend  ?     Another  thought  was  mine  :  40 

I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I  was  loved. 


412  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

I  doubted  whether  daughter's  tenderness, 

45'  Or  easy  nature,  might  not  let  itself 

Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal ; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 

SO  And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long  for  court 

And  all  its  perilous  glories :  and  I  thought. 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force  in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me  that  at  a  word. 
No  reason  given  her,  she  could  cast  aside 

55  A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her. 

And  therefore  dearer ;  or  if  not  so  new. 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  usage ;  then  I  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 

60  Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I  do  rest, 

A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon  for  my  thoughts ; 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 

65  Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day. 

When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your  costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on  her  knees. 
Who  knows  ?  another  gift  of  the  high  God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to  lisp  you  thanks." 

70  He  spoke :  the  mother  smiled,  but  half  in  tears. 

Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt  her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode  away. 


Gareth's  Combat  with  the  Noonday  Sxrn 
{From  Idylls  of  the  King:  "  Gareth  and  Lynette  ") 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second  river-loop. 
Huge  on  a  high  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noonday  Sun 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  413 

Beyond  a  raging  shallow.     As  if  the  flower 

That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets  5 

Ten-thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash'd  the  fierce  shield. 

All  sun ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying  blots 

Before  them  when  he  turn'd  from  watching  him. 

He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow  roar'd, 

"What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my  marches  here?"  10 

And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd  again, 

"Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's  hall 

Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath  his  arms." 

"Ugh !"  cried  the  Sun,  and,  vizoring  up  a  red 

And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness,  15 

Push'd  horse  across  the  foamings  of  the  ford. 

Whom  Gareth  met  mid-stream ;  no  room  was  there 

For  lance  or  tourney-skill ;  foiu*  strokes  they  struck 

With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ;  the  new  knight 

Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as  the  Sun  20 

Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the  fifth. 

The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream,  the  stream 

Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd  away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  liis  lance  athwart  the  ford ; 

So  drew  him  home ;  but  he  that  fought  no  more,  25 

As  being  all  bone-batter'd  on  the  rock. 

Yielded ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 

"Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for  thee. 

Lead,  and  I  follow."     Quietly  she  led. 

"Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel,  changed  again?"  30 

"Nay,  not  a  point;  nor  art  thou  victor  here. 

There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford ; 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled  —  ay,  for  I  saw  it. 

"'O  sun*  —  not  this  strong  fool  whom  thou.  Sir  Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro'  mere  unhappiness  —  35 

'O  sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 


414  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

"What  knowest  thou  of  love-song  or  of  love? 
40  Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  were  nobly  born, 

Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.     Yea,  perchance,  — 

"'O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done, 
Blow  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

45  •   "What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  except,  belike. 

To  garnish  meats  with  ?   hath  not  our  good  King 
Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchendom, 
A  foolish  love  for  flowers  ?  what  stick  ye  round 
The  pasty  ?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar's  head  ? 

60  Flowers  ?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries  and  bay. 

"'O  birds  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by. 
Sing  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark,  mavis,  merle, 
65  Linnet  ?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter  forth 

May-music  growing  with  the  growing  light, 
Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?  these  be  for  the  snare  — 
So  runs  thy  fancy  —  these  be  for  the  spit, 
Larding  and  basting.     See  thou  have  not  now 
60  Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and  fly." 

The  Revenge 

A    BALLAD    OF    THE    FLEET 
I 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fluttered  bird,  came  flying  from  far  away  : 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea !  we  have  sighted  fifty-three !" 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :   "'Fore  God,  I  am  no  coward; 
5  But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty-three? " 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  415 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  "I  know  you  are  no  coward ; 
You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 
But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore.  10 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain." 

HI 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land  15 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below : 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blessed  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not  left  to  Spain,  20 

To  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to  fight. 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard  came  in  sight. 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly?  25 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again :  "We  be  all  good  English  men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the  devil,  30 

For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we  roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 

The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick  below ; 

For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were  seen,        35 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the  long  sea-lane  between. 


416  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down  from  their  decks  and 

laughed. 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
40  By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of  guns. 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stayed. 

VII 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
45  Long  and  loud, 

Foiu"  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day. 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard  lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 


VIII 

50  But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself  and  went, 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill  content ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand  to  hand. 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musqueteers. 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 

55  When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


DC 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over  the  summer 

sea. 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the  fifty-tlu-ee. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built  galleons  came. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle-thunder  and 

flame: 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  417 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her  dead  and 
her  shame.  60 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shattered,  and  so  could  fight 
no  more  — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world  before  ? 


For  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on  !" 

Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck ; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer  night  was  gone,  65 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  dressed  he  had  left  the  deck, 

But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly  dead. 

And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the  head, 

And  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on !" 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far  over  the 

summer  sea,  70 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  feared  that  we  still 

could  sting. 
So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain. 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we,  75 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain. 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate  strife : 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them  stark  and 

cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was  all  of 

it  spent;  80 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride : 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men !  85 


418  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die  —  does  it  matter  when  ? 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner  -  -  sink  her,  split  her  in  twain  1 
^0  Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain !" 

xu 

And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the  seamen  made  reply  : 
"We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go ; 
95  We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  coiu-tly  foreign  grace ; 
100  But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried  : 

"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true ; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do. 
With  a  jov-ful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Grenville  die  I" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 

105  And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few ; 
Was  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down  into  the  deep, 

110  And  they  manned  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien  crew. 
And  away  she  sailed  with  her  loss  and  longed  for  her  own ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruined  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

115  And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earthquake  grew. 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  419 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts  and  their 


And  the  whole  sea  plimged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shattered  navy  of 

Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  at  Balaclava 
October  25,  1854 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade  I 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands  of  Russians, 

Thousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the  valley  —  and  stay'd ; 

For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hundred  were  riding  by 

When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances  arose  in  the  sky ;  5 

And  he  call'd,   "Left  wheel  into  line!"   and  they  wheel'd   and 

obey'd. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  host  that  had  halted  he  knew  not  why. 
And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bade  his  trumpeter  sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as  he  waved  his  blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory  will  never  die  —  10 

"Follow,"  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
FoUow'd  the  Heavy  Brigade. 


The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and  the  might  of  the  fight ! 

Thousands  of  horsemen  had  gather'd  there  on  the  height. 

With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left  and  a  wing  to  the  right,  15 

And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close  ?   but  he  dash'd  up  alone 

Thro'  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 

Sway'd  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 

Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then. 

All  in  a  moment  follow'd  with  force  20 

Three  that  were  next  in  their  fiery  course. 


420  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and  horse, 
Fought  for  their  Uves  in  the  narrow  gap  they  had  made  — 
Four  amid  thousands !  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
25     Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade. 

m 

Fell  like  a  cannon-shot. 

Burst  like  a  thunder-bolt, 

Crash'd  like  a  hurricane, 

Broke  through  the  mass  from  below, 
30     Drove  through  the  midst  of  the  foe. 

Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 

Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow. 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 

Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light  I 
35     And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze. 

Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the  fight, 

And  were  only  standing  at  gaze. 

When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 

Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the  right, 
40     And  roU'd  them  around  like  a  cloud,  — 

O,  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle  were  we. 

When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from  sight. 

Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-gray  sea, 

And  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  whispering,  all  dismay'd, 
45     "Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred  of  Scarlett's  Brigade !' 

IV 

"Ijost  one  and  all"  were  the  words 
Mutter'd  in  ovu*  dismay ; 
But  they  rode  like  victors  and  lords 
Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
60     In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes. 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  421 

The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 

Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  —  55 

Ranged  Uke  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 

In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day ; 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 

Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without, 

Drove  it  in  wild  disarray,  60 

For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and  a  shout. 

And  the  foemen  surged,  and  waver'd  and  reel'd, 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out  of  the  field, 

And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge  that  they  made  1  65 

Glory  to  all  the  three  himdred,  and  all  the  Brigade  I 


The  Throstle 

"Smnmer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming  I 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again!" 

Yes,  my  wild  Uttle  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue.  5 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"New,  new,  new,  new !"     Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again," 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  !  10 

And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 
See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year!" 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear,  15 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


422  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Crossing  the  Bar 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

6  But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep. 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 
10  And  after  that  the  dark  I 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 
When  I  embark ; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
15  I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 


ROBERT   BROWNING 
Song  from  Pippa  Passes 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning's  at  seven ; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn ; 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world  I 


ROBERT  BROWNING  423 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 

"Good  speed !"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest,  5 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 

I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 

Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right,  10 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 

Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ;  15 

At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 

And  from  Mechelij  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime. 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time !" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one,  20 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past. 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last. 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back  25 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  ovm  master,  askance ! 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on.  30 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Rocs  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her. 


424  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

We'll  remember  at  Aix"  —  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
35     And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
40     'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight  I" 

"How  they'll  greet  us  1" —  and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
45     And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim. 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
60     Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good. 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

55     And  all  I  remember  is  —  friends  flocking  round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poiu-ed  down  his  throat  our  last  measvu-e  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

60     Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  425 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how,  6 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall,  10 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew  15 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  fiung  in  smiling  joy. 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect  —  20 

(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace  25 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire,  30 

Perched  him ! "    The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


426  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
35  A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes ; 
"You're  wounded !"     "Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
"I'm  killed.  Sire  I"    And,  his  chief  beside, 
40  Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

My  Last  Duchess 

,  That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

5  Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?  I  said 

"Fra  Pandolf "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance. 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance. 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

10  The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst. 
How  such  a  glance  came  there ;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

16  Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps 

Fr^  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half -flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :"  such  stuff 

20  Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad. 
Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

25  Sir,  'twas  all  one !  My  favor  at  her  breast. 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 


ROBERT  BROWNING  427 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  oflBcious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men,  —  good !  but  thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling  ?    Even  had  you  skill  35 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me ;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark"  —  and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping ;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?    This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ;  45 

Then  all  smiles  stopp)ed  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise  ?    We'll  meet 

The  company  below  then.     I  repeat. 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  60 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though. 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,  55 

Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  I 


Hotoe-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  April's  there. 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,  some  morning,  unaware. 


428  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

6  That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
10  And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows ! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — ■ 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
15  Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew. 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
20  —  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  I 


Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 

Grow  old  along  with  me  1 
The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 
Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
5     Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God  :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid  ! " 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers. 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours. 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?  " 
10     Not  that,  admiring  stars, 

It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them  all ! " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
15     Do  I  remonstrate :  folly  wide  the  mark  1 


ROBERT  BROWNING  429 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed,  * 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast ; 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  siu-e  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?     Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast  ? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied  25 

To  that  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  I 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe.  30 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  I 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ;  35 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;   dare,  never  grudge  the  throe ! 

For  thence,  —  a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks,  — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 

What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ?  45 

To  man,  propose  this  test  — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ? 


430  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
60 1  own  the  Past  profuse 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole ; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to  live  and  learn"? 

65  Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine  I 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too : 

Perfect  I  call  thy  plan : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  I 
60  Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what  thou  shalt  do"  ? 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
65  To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as  we  did  best  I 

Let  us  not  always  say, 
"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole  I " 
70  As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps  soul !" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
75  Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute ;  a  god,  though  in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
80  Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 


ROBERT  BROWNING  431 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  85 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby ; 

Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same. 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being  old.  90 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots  —  "Add  this  to  the  rest,  95 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day." 

So,  still  within  this  life. 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  100 

That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved  - 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day :  106 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth,  110 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made  : 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Fiu"ther.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death  nor  be  afraid  1 


432  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

115  Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 
120  From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small. 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past  I 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
125  Were  they,  my  soul  disdained. 

Right  ?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last  I 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 
130  Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 
They  this  thing,  and  I  that :  whom  shall  my  soul  believe  ? 

■Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
135  Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  'price ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
140  And  finger  failed  to  plumb. 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 

All  instincts  immature. 

All  purposes  unsure. 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount ; 

145  Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped ; 


ROBERT  BROWNING  433 

All  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped.  150 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel. 

That  metaphor !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay,  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 

When  the  wine  makes  its  round,  155 

■"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day !" 

Pool !    All  that  is,  at  all. 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 

What  entered  into  thee,  160 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops  :  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance. 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest :  165 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  suflBciently  impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves. 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  170 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim. 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  1  175 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal. 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow. 
The  Master's  lips  aglow ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with  earth's 
wheel?  180 


434  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men ; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
185  With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 

Bound  dizzily  —  mistake  my  end,  to  slake  thy  thirst : 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work. 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  1 
190  My  times  be  in  thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same ! 


Epilogue  to  Asolando 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free. 
Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned  — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so,  — 
5  —Pity  me? 

Oh,  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  1 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly  ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
10  —  Being  —  who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward. 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break. 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
16  Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive !"  cry   "Speed,  —  fight  on,  fare  ever 
20  There  as  here!" 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  435 

ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

El  Dorado  1 

It  seems  as  if  a  great  deal  were  attainable  in  a  world  where 
there  are  so  many  marriages  and  decisive  battles,  and  where 
we  all,  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  and  with  great  gusto 
and  despatch,  stow  a  portion  of  victuals  finally  and  irre- 
trievably into  the  bag  which  contains  us.  And  it  would  5 
seem  also,  on  a  hasty  view,  that  the  attainment  of  as  much 
as  possible  was  the  one  goal  of  man's  contentious  life.  And 
yet,  as  regards  the  spirit,  this  is  but  a  semblance.  We 
live  in  an  ascending  scale  when  we  live  happily,  one  thing 
leading  to  another  in  an  endlegg  series.  There  is  always  10 
a  new  horizon  for  onward-looking  men,  and  although  we 
dwell  on  a  small  planet,  immersed  in  petty  business  and  not 
enduring  beyond  a  brief  period  of  years,  we  are  so  constituted 
that  our  hopes  are  inaccessible,  like  stars,  and  the  term  of 
hoping  is  prolonged  until  the  term  of  life.  To  be  truly  15 
happy  is  a  question  of  how  we  begin  and  not  of  how  we  end, 
of  what  we  want  and  not  of  what  we  have.  An  aspiration 
is  a  joy  forever,  a  possession  as  solid  as  a  landed  estate,  a 
fortune  which  we  can  never  exhaust  and  which  gives  us 
year  by  year  a  revenue  of  pleasurable  activity.  To  have  20 
many  of  these  is  to  be  spiritually  rich.  Life  is  only  a  very 
dull  and  ill-directed  theatre  unless  we  have  some  interests 
in  the  piece ;  and  to  those  who  have  neither  art  nor  science, 
the  world  is  a  mere  arrangement  of  colours,  or  a  rough 
foot-wa;^'  where  they  may  \ery  well  break  their  shins.  It 25 
is  in  virtue  of  his  own  desires  and  curiosities  that  any  man 
continues  to  exist  with  even  patience,  that  he  is  charmed 
by  the  look  of  things  and  people,  and  that  he  wakens  every 
morning  with  a  renewed  appetite  for  work  and  pleasure. 

'From  Virginibua  Pueriaque,  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 


436  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

30  Desire  and  curiosity  are  the  two  eyes  through  which  he 
sees  the  world  in  the  most  enchanted  colours :  it  is  they  that 
make  women  beautiful  or  fossils  interesting :  and  the  man 
may  squander  his  estate  and  come  to  beggary,  but  if  he  keeps 
these  two  amulets  he  is  still  rich  in  the  possibilities  of  pleasure. 

35  Suppose  he  could  take  one  meal  so  compact  and  compre- 
hensive that  he  should  never  hunger  any  more;  suppose 
him,  at  a  glance,  to  take  in  all  the  features  of  the  world  and 
allay  the  desire  for  knowledge;  suppose  him  to  do  the  like 
in  any  province  of  experience  —  would  not  that  man  be  in 

40  a  poor  way  for  amusement  ever  after  ? 

One  who  goes  touring  on  foot  with  a  single  volume  in  his 
knapsack  reads  with  circumspection,  pausing  often  to  re- 
flect, and  often  laying  the  book  down  to  contemplate  the 
landscape  or  the  prints  in  the  inn  parlour;    for  he  fears  to 

45  come  to  an  end  of  his  entertainment,  and  be  left  companion- 
less  on  the  last  stages  of  his  journey.  A  young  fellow  re- 
cently finished  the  works  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  winding  up, 
if  we  remember  aright,  with  the  ten  note-books  upon  Fred- 
erick the  Great.     "What!"  cried  the  young  fellow  in  con- 

50 sternation,  "is  there  no  more  Carlyle?  Am  I  left  to  the 
daily  papers?"  A  more  celebrated  instance  is  that  of  Alex- 
ander, who  wept  bitterly  because  he  had  no  more  worlds 
to  subdue.  And  when  Gibbon  had  finished  the  Decline 
and  Fall,  he  had  only  a  few  moments  of  joy ;  and  it  was  with 

55a  "sober  melancholy"  that  he  parted  from  his  labours. 

Happily  we  all  shoot  at  the  moon  with  ineffectual  arrows ; 
our  hopes  are  set  on  inaccessible  El  Dorado;  we  come  to 
an  end  of  nothing  here  below.  Interests  are  only  plucked 
up   to   sow   themselves   again,  like  mustard.     You  would 

60  think,  when  the  child  was  born,  there  would  be  an  end  to 
trouble ;  and  yet  it  is  only  the  beginning  of  fresh  anxieties ; 
and  when  you  have  seen  it  through  its  teething  and  its 
education,  and  at  last  its  marriage,  alas !  it  is  only  to  have 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  437 

new  fears,  new  quivering  sensibilities,  with  every  day;   and 
the  health  of  your  children's  children  grows  as  touching  a  65 
concern  as  that  of  your  own.     Again,  when  you  have  married 
your  wife,  you  would  think  you  were  got  upon  a  hilltop,  and 
might  begin  to  go  downward  by  an  easy  slope.     But  you 
have  only  ended  courting  to  begin  marriage.     Falling  in 
love  and  winning  love  are  often  difficult  tasks  to  overbearing  70 
and  rebellious  spirits ;   but  to  keep  in  lov^e  is  also  a  business 
of  some  importance,  to  which  both  man  and  wife  must  bring 
kindness   and   goodwill.     The   true  love   story   commences 
at  the  altar,  when  there  lies  before  the  married  pair  a  most 
beautiful  contest  of  wisdom  and  generosity,  and  a  lifelong  75 
struggle    towards    an    unattainable    ideal.     Unattainable? 
Ay,  surely  unattainable,  from  the  very  fact  that  they  are 
two  instead  of  one. 

"Of  making  books  there  is  no  end,"  complained  the 
Preacher;  and  did  not  perceive  how  highly  he  was  praising 80 
letters  as  an  occupation.  There  is  no  end,  indeed,  to  making 
books  or  experiments,  or  to  travel,  or  to  gathering  wealth. 
Problem  gives  rise  to  problem.  We  may  study  forever, 
and  we  are  never  as  learned  as  we  would.  We  have  never 
made  a  statue  worthy  of  our  dreams.  And  when  we  have  85 
discovered  a  continent,  or  crossed  a  chain  of  mountains, 
it  is  only  to  find  another  ocean  or  another  plain  upon 
the  further  side.  In  the  infinite  universe  there  is  room 
for  our  swiftest  diligence  and  to  spare.  It  is  not  like 
the  works  of  Carlyle,  which  can  be  read  to  an  end.  Even  90 
in  a  corner  of  it,  in  a  private  park,  or  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  a  single  hamlet,  the  weather  and  the  seasons  keep 
so  deftly  changing  that  although  we  walk  there  for  a  life- 
time there  will  be  always  something  new  to  startle  and 
delight  us.  95 

There  is  only  one  wish  realizable  on  the  earth;   only  one 
thing  that  can  be  perfectly  attained :    Death.     And  from  a 


.    438  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

variety  of  circumstances  we  have  no  one  to  tell  us  whether 
it  be  worth  attaining. 

100  A  strange  picture  we  make  on  our  way  to  our  chimseras, 
ceaselessly  marching,  grudging  ourselves  the  time  for  rest ; 
indefatigable,  adventurous  pioneers.  It  is  true  that  we  shall 
never  reach  the  goal;  it  is  even  more  than  probable  that 
there  is  no  such  place ;  and  if  we  lived  for  centuries  and  were 

105  endowed  with  the  powers  of  a  god,  we  should  find  ourselves 
not  much  nearer  what  we  wanted  at  the  end.  O  toiling 
hands  of  mortals !  O  unwearied  feet,  travelling  ye  know 
not  whither !  Soon,  soon,  it  seems  to  you,  you  must  come 
forth  on  some  conspicuous  hilltop,  and  but  a  little  way  fur- 

110  ther,  against  the  setting  sun,  descry  the  spires  of  El  Dorado. 
Little  do  ye  know  your  own  blessedness ;  for  to  travel  hope- 
fully is  a  better  thing  than  to  arrive,  and  the  true  success 
is  to  labour. 


NOTES 

These  notes  are  intended  to  assist  the  student  to  such  informa- 
tion only  as  is  necessary  to  understanding  the  texts,  and  cannot 
readily  be  obtained  by  the  student  himself.  Dates  of  composition 
and  biographical  details  are  not  given,  as  a  rule,  because  access  to 
some  history  of  literature  is  assumed.  If  no  such  history  is  in  the 
student's  hands,  one  or  more  of  the  standard  works  should  be  avail- 
able for  reference.  Perhaps  the  best  one- volume  work  is  that  by 
Saintsbury  (Longmans).  An  excellent  book  for  the  field  indicated 
by  its  title  is  Hinchman  and  Gummere's  Lives  of  Great  English 
Writers  (Houghton).  Larger  works  of  great  value,  accessible  in 
most  public  Ubraries,  are  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  (Mac- 
millan,  70  vols.) ;  Garnett  and  Gosse's  Illustrated  History  of  English 
Literature  (Macmillan,  4  vols.) ;  the  Cambridge  History  of  English 
Literature  (Putnams,  14  vols.). 

Words  are  not  explained  here  if  satisfactory  definitions  are  to  be 
found  easily  in  such  dictionaries  as  Webster's  Secondary  School  Dic- 
tionary (American  Book  Co.),  the  Desk  Standard  (Funk  and  Wag- 
nails),  or  the  Concise  Oxford. 

Note  on  Variations  in  Spelling.  In  the  texts  the  editor  has  aimed  to 
follow  the  spelhng  of  the  particular  authors ;  in  commenting  on 
passages  in  these  notes  he  uses  the  spellings  that  in  his  opinion  have 
the  sanction  of  the  best  usage  to-day.  This,  while  it  seems  a  soimd 
method  to  the  editor,  gives  rise  to  some  apparent  inconsistencies. 
It  is  well  known  that  British  usage  favors  the  form  -our  for  many 
words  in  which  American  usage  favors  -or;  and  it  does  not  seem 
necessary  to  normalize  to  the  extent  of  changing  either  set  of  forms 
here.  In  the  writing  of  proper  names  the  difference  is  even  more 
noticeable.  Ben  Jonson,  for  example,  appears  to  have  wTitten 
"Shakespeare"  (see  page  92);  Coleridge,  "Shakspeare"  (page 
247);  Carlyle,  "Shakspear"  (page  342).  The  editor,  following 
Kittredge,  Wendell,  Dowden,  and  the  New  Shakspere  Society  prefers 
"  Shakspere."  Tennyson  writes  gray  in  one  poem  and  grey  in  another ; 
fixed  in  one,  fixt  in  another.  Gray  writes  even  in  one  line  in  the 
Elegy,  ev'n  in  another.  Throughout  the  volume  effort  has  been  made 
to  reproduce  faithfully  the  exact  language  of  the  authors. 

439 


440  NOTES  [Pages  1-2 

Beovrulf.  —  A  brief  account  of  this  anonymous  Anglo-Saxon 
hero-poem  should  be  read  in  some  history  of  English  literature. 
Professor  Gummere  in  his  translation  has  used  the  old  rhyme- 
scheme,  in  which  the  two  half -hues  were  united  by  alliteration  (initial 
rhjone).  Note  spake  .  .  .  said,  jewel  .  .  .  enjoy  .  .  .  jocund, 
Beowulf  .  .  .  battle-weeds;  in  line  14  the  alliteration  is  of  vowels 
—  every  .  .  .  earl  .  .  .  other  —  any  vowel  alliterating  with  itself  or 
with  any  other  vowel. 

In  the  first  selection  Wealhtheow,  wife  of  Hrothgar  (line  22), 
king  of  the  Danes,  presents  a  jewel  to  Beowulf  with  a  speech  of 
gratitude  to  him  for  slaying  the  monster  Grendel.  3.  battle-weeds 
translates  the  Anglo-Saxon  for  "armor."  Professor  Gummere's 
word  gives  the  alUteration,  and  is  a  compound  of  the  kind  favored 
by  the  old  poets.  Cf.  bench-boards  (25),  beer-carouser  (26) ;  in  the 
second  selection  sword-hungry  (7),  bandy-of-battle  (29),  bone-rings 
(37)  —  every  one  of  which  is  a  close  rendering  of  a  compound  in 
the  original.  Anglo-Saxon  had  not  such  a  stock  of  synonyms  from 
various  sources  as  Modern  English  has,  and  it  made  up  for  the  lack 
by  compounding  freely.  5.  striplings,  the  young  Danes  who  were 
present.  16.  thanes,  nobles.  19.  Wyrd,  fate.  27.  Literally, 
"ready  to  go  [to  death],  and  doomed."  Beer-carouser  is  used  with 
no  thought  of  condemnation.  The  warrior  so  designated,  jEschere, 
is  elsewhere  referred  to  as  Hrothgar's  chief  councilor.  30.  athel- 
ing,  noble.  36.  sovran,  old  —  and  etymologically  more  correct  — 
spelling  of  "sovereign."  It  is  a  word  worth  investigation  by  the 
student. 

The  Fight.  —  During  the  night,  after  Wealhtheow's  presentation 
of  the  jewel,  the  mother  of  Grendel  came  to  the  hall  Heorot  (see 
line  58),  and  made  off  with  ^Eschere.  Beowulf  volunteered  to  seek 
vengeance  upon  her  in  her  home  beneath  the  water.  1.  Beowulf's 
nation  are  called  Geats,  War-Geats,  Sea-Geats,  Weder-Geats,  and 
sometimes  Weders.  The  significance  of  this  last  term  is  unknown. 
8.  gvest  in  the  earlier  days  was  used  of  a  hostile,  as  well  as  of  a 
friendly,  visitor.  It  is  a  cognate  of  the  Latin  hostis,  an  enemy  or 
stranger.  13.  sark,  a  good  Anglo-Saxon  word,  survives  in  modem 
Scotch.  See  Burns's  Tarn  O'  Shanter,  line  150.  15.  hent,  seized. 
16.  bairn,  her  son  Grendel.  20.  Ecgtheow's  son,  Beowulf,  eg  is 
pronounced  like  dg  in  modern  "  edge."  23.  holy  God.  The  allu- 
sions to  Christianity  are  due  to  a  working-over  of  the  poem  in  Eng- 
land.   The    original    form    of    the    story    was    purely    pagan. 


Pages  2-11]  NOTES  441 

28.  Eotens,  giants,  or  monsters.  No  ordinary  sword  could  defeat 
them  because  all  such  were  under  a  spell,  or  "  conjured."  33.  The 
Danes  were  sometimes  called  Scyldings,  because  the  ruling  dynasty 
was  descended  from  Scyld  (pronounce  "Shild").  37.  hone-rings, 
neck.  42.  heaven's  candle  is  a  favorite  metaphor  in  our  older 
poetry  for  "sun."  44.  //i/^eZac  was  king  of  the  Geats.  58.  Heo- 
rol,  the  name  of  Hrothgar's  hall,  means  "  hart"  or  " stag."  The  hall 
was  so  named  "from  decorations  in  the  gables  that  resembled  the 
antlers  of  a  deer."    (Gimimere.) 

C.«DMON.  —  The  Paraphrase  derives  its  chief  interest  for  modem 
readers  from  certain  resemblances  between  it  and  Paradise  Lost. 
In  the  opinion  of  some  scholars,  it  is  "not  impossible"  that  Milton 
knew  the  old  poem;  in  the  opinion  of  others,  it  is  "unhkely." 

Cynewttlp  is  the  greatest  single  name  in  Anglo-Saxon  Christian 
poetry,  though  probably  much  verse  has  been  wrongly  attributed 
to  him.  The  second  passage  given  in  the  text  is  of  interest  because 
of  the  rare  internal  rhyme  of  Unes  6-10,  retained  in  the  translation. 

Beda  wrote  his  history  in  Latin,  and  it  was  translated  by  Alfred 
the  Great  or  under  his  supervision.  2.  Ceolwulf  was  king  of 
Northumbria  from  729  to  737.  His  chief  claim  to  remembrance, 
says  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  is  that  Beda  dedicated 
this  history  to  him. 

Coming  of  the  Angles.  —  2.  Martianus  was  emperor  of  Rome; 
Britain  was  at  the  time  a  Roman  province.  5.  the  aforesaid  king 
was  the  legendary  Vortigern.  9.  //le/oe  were  the  Picts.  25.  The 
Old  Saxons  lived  in  what  is  now  Holstein.  29.  Angulus,  modem 
Schleswig.  51.  Chaldees  .  .  .  burned  .  .  .  Jerusalem;  see  2  Kings, 
XXV,  9-10. 

Alfred  the  Great.  —  This  Preface  was  a  sort  of  circular  letter 
sent  to  all  bishops.  Of  all  the  manuscripts  extant,  only  the  one 
here  followed  has  inserted  the  name  of  the  bishop  for  whom  it  was 
intended.  16.  on  this  side  of  the  Number,  the  south  side,  where 
Alfred  had  authority.  30.  very  few  of  the  virtues;  the  old  English 
might  also  mean  "very  few  [loved]  the  virtues."  59.  ye,  all  the 
bishops.  73.  The  title  of  Gregory's  book  is  Cura  Pastoralis. 
81.  A  mancus  had  a  value  of  about  sixty  cents;  each  clasp  was 
worth,  then,  about  thirty  dollars.      83.   minster,  cathedral. 


442  NOTES  [Pages  11-17 

The  Chronicle.  —  It  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  identify  the  per- 
sons and  places  mentioned  in  these  selections  from  the  Chronicle. 
The  entries  given  will  show  how  entirely  without  method  the  earlier 
chronicles  were.  The  monasteries  kept  these  records ;  and  for  any 
year  the  events  recorded  are  merely  those  that  happened  to  stick 
in  the  memory  of  the  monk  assigned  to  the  task.  To  the  Chronicle, 
however,  all  historians  of  England  are  greatly  indebted. 

Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight  is  one  of  the  finest  Middle  Eng- 
lish romances,  most  of  which,  including  Sir  Gawain,  are  anonymous. 
In  the  portion  of  the  romance  preceding  our  first  selection  a  name- 
less huge  knight,  clad  all  in  green,  had  come  to  Arthur's  court  on 
New  Year's  Day,  and  challenged  any  knight  of  the  Round  Table  to 
give  him  a  blow,  and  to  promise  a  year  later  to  seek  the  Green  Knight 
and  take  a  similar  blow  in  return.  Gawain  accepts  the  challenge; 
and  in  the  paragraph  given  Gawain  is  armed  preparatory  to  setting 
out  in  search  of  his  adversary.  10.  byrnie,  coat  of  mail.  16.  bawd- 
rick,  spelled  also  "  baldric,"  a  belt  or  sash. 

Gawain  Keeps  his  Pledge.  —  The  blow  which  the  Green  Knight 
took  from  Gawain  at  Arthur's  court  severed  his  head.  The  Green 
Knight  then  seized  the  head  in  his  hand,  mounted  his  horse;  and 
urging  Gawain  to  keep  the  appointment  a  year  later,  he  rode  away. 
Such  marvelous  incidents  are  common  in  the  medieval  romances; 
but  ordinary  mortals  did  not  possess  such  powers,  as  is  indicated 
when  Gawain  says  (line  35) :  "If  my  head  fall  on  the  stones  I  can- 
not replace  it."  It  may  be  noted  that  the  Gawain  of  Tennyson's 
Idylls  is  a  very  different  character  from  the  Gawain  of  the  medieval 
verse  romances.  In  the  latter  he  is  one  of  the  finest  figures ;  the 
soul  of  courtesy,  bravery,  and  honor. 

Geoffrey  of  MoNMOtrrH's  History,  though  accepted  as  true 
throughout  the  Middle  Ages,  is  now  understood  to  be  in  large  meas- 
ure fiction.  Subsequent  literature  is  largely  indebted  to  Geoffrey 
for  preserving  many  legends  of  Arthur,  which  have  furnished  in- 
spiration for  many  poets. 

2.  Legions  is  the  name  given  by  the  Romans  to  Caerleon  upon 
Usk,  in  southern  Wales,  the  seat  of  Arthiu-'s  court.  24.  Caliburn, 
called  by  Tennyson  "Excahbur,"  following  the  Celtic  and  French 
forms  rather  than  the  Latin.  25.  Avallon,  the  "Land  of  the 
Blessed"  in  Celtic  mythology,  has  been  by  some  identified  with 
Glastonbury  in  Somersetshire,  Arthur's  burial  place.       53.   with  his 


Pages  17-21]  NOTES  443 

CcUibum  alone.  "Long  time  ago,"  or  "Once  upon  a  time,"  it  was 
common  for  heroes  to  perform  such  deeds.  56.  Colgrin,  Bardulph, 
and  Cheldric  were  the  Saxon  leaders. 

WicLiF.  —  The  passage  from  Wiclif  {Matthew  V,  1-12)  is  given 
in  the  original  so  that,  the  modem  version  being  easily  accessible, 
the  student  may  get  some  idea  of  the  language  and  manner  of  writ- 
ing of  the  time.  It  should  be  compared  with  Tyndale's  version 
(page  68),  as  well  as  with  the  King  James  and  the  American  Revised 
versions.  The  symbol  3  in  this  passage  stands  sometimes  for  gh, 
sometimes  for  y. 

Langland.  —  A  brief  account  of  the  Vision  should  be  read  in  a 
history  of  English  literature  or  an  encyclopedia.  The  first  34  and 
the  last  14  Unes  of  the  Prologiie  are  given.  12.  unst,  knew. 
42.  "  God  save  you,  Dame  Emma."  Probably  a  popular  song  of  the 
day.  Langland's  use  of  the  old  alliterative  rhyme  (see  Beowulf  emd 
notes)  may  be  seen  in  many  Unes  of  the  translation. 

Mandeville's  Travels,  hke  Geoffrey's  History,  found  general 
acceptance  in  the  Middle  Ages,  though  its  extravagance  is  very 
manifest  to-day.  The  "  Christian  "  empire  of  Pr ester  John  was  sup- 
posed to  be  somewhere  in  the  interior  of  Asia.  5.  scripture,  writ- 
ing. 12.  barrettes,  frauds,  cautels,  craftinesses.  20.  in  no  man- 
ner season,  at  no  time  of  year.  22.  navy,  ship.  27.  to  man's 
meat,  for  man's  food.  28.  journeys,  days'  travel.  33.  fiome, 
river.       44.   of  faerie,  from  fairyland. 

Chaucer.  —  Since  a  translation  into  Modern  English  accompanies 
the  original,  these  notes  do  not  usually  give  meanings  of  individual 
words.  Where  the  Middle  English  is  idiomatic,  and  therefore  does 
not  admit  of  literal  translation,  the  idiom  is  explained. 

Suggestions  for  reading  Chaucer.  —  As  in  Latin,  every  word  has 
as  many  syllables  as  it  has  vowels  and  diphthongs,  except  when 
final  e  is  eUded  before  a  following  vowel.  For  example,  sole  (line  1) 
and  swete  (5)  are  two  syllables  each :  Aprille  (1)  is  three  syllables; 
but  droghte  (2)  is  only  one  syllable,  as  is  veyne  (3). 

o  long  {Aprille,  1 ;    bathed,  3)  is  sounded  as  in  modern  father. 

a  short  {whan,  that,  1),  the  same  sound  less  prolonged. 

e  long,  also  ee  {eek,  swete,  5)  like  a  in  ate. 

e  short  {hem,  11)  as  in  get. 

i  (or  y)  long  {Aprille,  1 ;   melodye,  9)  as  in  machine. 


444  NOTES  [Pages  22-23 

i  (or  y)  short  (mth,  1 ;  y-ronne,  8)  as  in  in. 

o  long,  also  oo  {sole,  1 ;  goon,  12)  as  in  vote. 

o  short  {on,  12)  as  in  modern  on. 

u  long  {nature,  11)  as  in  French  nature,  or  German  jmn. 

u  short  (/ttZ,  22 ;   but,  35)  as  in  full,  never  as  in  modem  hut. 

ai,  ay,  ei,  ey  {veyne,  3 ;   lay,  20)  as  in  eight. 

au,  aw  {straunge,  13)  like  ow  in  cow. 

ou,  ow  {shoures,  1 ;   yow,  38)  as  in  you. 

All  consonants  are  sounded.  The  only  variations  from  modem 
English  are  ch,  always  as  in  which;  and  h  (medial)  and  gh,  like  ch 
in  German  nicht. 

Prologue.  —  1.  Whan  that.  As  late  as  Shakspere's  time  "that" 
is  often  used  after  other  conjunctions  where  the  present  idiom  re- 
gards it  as  superfluous.  Cf.  Unes  18,  41,  68,  149,  etc.  his  is  the 
possessive  form  of  the  neuter  as  well  as  the  masculine  pronoun 
regularly  in  EngUsh  until  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
5.  Zephirus,  the  south  wind.  7.  The  sun  is  called  "young"  in 
April  because  in  Chaucer's  time  the  year  began  with  the  vernal 
equinox.  The  adoption  of  January  as  the  first  month  dates  from 
the  eighteenth  century.  8.  Ram  (Aries)  is  the  sign  of  the  zodiac 
extending  from  about  the  middle  of  March  to  the  middle  of  April. 
April  covered  half  of  the  Ram  and  half  of  the  Bull  (Taurus) .  y-ronne. 
y  is  the  sign  of  the  past  participle,  found  in  Anglo-Saxon  and  modern 
German  as  ge.  9.  fowl  for  "bird"  is  the  Anglo-Saxon /«groZ,  same 
as  German  vogd.  11.  hem  and  hir  are  the  old  forms  of  "them" 
and  "  their."  15.  The  old  shire  is  found  in  the  names  of  counties 
in  many  states  as  well  as  in  England  —  e.g.,  Hampshire,  Wiltshire. 
17.  martir,  Thomas  a  Becket,  murdered  in  Canterbury  Cathedral. 
for  to  seke.  The  use  of  "for"  with  the  infinitive  is  regular  until  the 
seventeenth  century.  Cf.  the  King  James  (or  Authorized)  Version 
of  the  Bible,  MaUhew  XI,  8:  "What  went  ye  out  for  to  see?" 
seke  in  this  line  is  not,  of  course,  the  same  word  as  seke  in  the  next, 
though  they  are  spelled  the  same  in  Middle  English. 

19.  Bifel.  Omission  of  impersonal  subject  will  be  found  fre- 
quently. 20.  A  tabard  was  a  sort  of  vest,  or  sleeveless  coat.  The 
inn  was  named  from  its  sign,  which  contained  such  a  coat.  South- 
wark,  on  the  south  side  of  the  Thames,  is  now  a  part  of  London. 
29.  atte,  a  common  contraction  of  "  at  the."  33.  The  subject  of 
mode  is  "  we,"  supplied  (as  the  modem  English  idiom  does  not  allow) 
from  our  in  the  next  line. 


Paoes  24-30]  NOTES  445 

42.  A  Prioress  was  head  of  a  priory,  ranking  next  to  an  Abbess. 
44.  As  Saint  Loy,  or  Eligius,  was  reputed  not  to  swear  at  all,  an 
oath  by  him  was  no  oath  at  all.  Swearing  was  so  general  in  earher 
times  that  even  the  failure  of  an  eminently  rehgious  woman  to  do  so 
was  cause  for  remark.  48-50.  These  Unes  are  no  reflection  on 
the  Prioress's  French.  They  mean  merely  that  she  had  not  the 
Parisian  accent.  51  ff.  The  account  of  her  table  manners  agrees 
with  the  rules  of  conduct  set  down  in  many  books  of  the  time,  and 
is  meant  to  indicate  that  her  manners  were  good.  It  should  be  re- 
called that  forks  had  not  then  been  invented.  51.  with-alle  has 
no  modern  equivalent  and  does  not  need  to  be  translated.  "  Withal " 
is  a  word  very  much  overworked  to-day,  especially  by  students. 
58.  ferthing;  literally,  a  "fourth"  part  (cf.  "farthing,"  a  fourth  of 
an  English  penny,  equivalent  to  half  a  cent).  70.  of  smale  houndes 
is  the  French  idiom.  73.  men,  one,  any  one.  Same  as  German 
man  and  French  on.  76.  eyen,  a  survival  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
"weak"  declension,  which  formed  the  plural  in  -an.  The  only 
modern  survivals  of  it  are  "oxen"  and  the  poetic  "kine."  "Chil- 
dren" and  "brethren"  are  irregular  formations.  83.  "A  pair  of 
beads,"  i.e.,  a  rosary.  After  each  ten  beads  of  one  material  (here 
coral)  there  is  a  larger  bead  of  different  material  or  color,  called  a 
"gaud."  86.  Am^r  (love),  in  the  Prioress's  vocabulary,  was  the 
sort  mentioned  in  1  Corinthians  XIII  ("charity"  in  the  King  James 
version  is  an  inaccurate  translation).  95.  him  was  lever;  literally, 
it  was  more  pleasing  to  him.  lever  is  the  comparative  of  "leef," 
which  survives  in  modern  colloquial  usage  as  "leave"  —  "I'd  as 
leave  go."  99.  In  medieval  times  "philosopher"  meant  "alche- 
mist" as  well  as  student  of  philosophy.  The  next  line  is  a  sly  thrust 
at  the  alchemists,  who  sought  to  turn  base  metals  into  gold. 

111.  for  the  nones;  literally,  for  that  one  time.  The  phrase  is 
seldom  used  in  its  literal  sense,  and  is  indeed  often  best  not  trans- 
lated. 117-8.  These  lines  are  a  good  instance  of  the  poet's  keen 
observation,  as  well  as  of  his  humorous  mixture  of  incongruous 
things,     as  it  thoughte  me;  an  impersonal  construction  similar  to  the 

"methinks"  occasionally  heard  to-day. 

121.  Persoun  is  modern  "parson."  135.  ne  .  .  .nat.  .  .ne;  a 
good  example  of  the  double  negative,  which  was  correct  in  the  old 
language,  but  is  forbidden  by  modern  grammar.       137.  ferrest,  if 

still  preserved,  would  be  "farrest."       166.  for  the  nones.     Cf.  the 
translation,  and  the  note  on  line  111 ;  also  the  translation  of  hne  172. 


446  NOTES  [Pages  31-34 

175.  The  prize  in  such  contests  was  usually  a  ram.  Notice  that 
Chaucer  gives  most  space  here  to  a  description  of  the  Miller's  ap- 
pearance. Contrast  with  the  Clerk,  where  four  lines  are  deemed 
sufficient.  181-3.  Cf.  line  118,  and  note.  184.  The  change  of 
position  of  letters  —  nosethirles  to  "nostrils,"  called  "metathesis," 
occurs  in  a  number  of  English  words.  Chaucer's  hrid  thus  becomes 
"bird,"  his  crulle  becomes  "curly."  189.  The  milling  of  grain 
was  done  on  shares,  and  this  miller  managed  to  get  his  share  three 
times.  190.  Millers  tested  the  grain  with  their  thumbs;  hence, 
one  who  did  it  well,  and  thus  increased  his  profits,  might  be  said  to 
have  a  golden  thumb.  It  may  be,  however,  that  Chaucer  has  in 
mind  the  proverb,  "An  honest  miller  has  a  thumb  of  gold";  in 
which  case,  since  no  mUler  has  a  thumb  of  gold,  he  is  saying  that 
there  are  no  honest  miUers.  par  dee,  from  French  par  dieu,  literally, 
"  by  God,"  but  in  Chaucer's  time  hardly  more  than  an  emphatic  bit 
of  slang. 

194.  A  Pardoner  had  a  license,  sometimes  forged,  to  sell  pardons 
and  indulgences.  A  full  and  most  interesting  account  of  them  is 
found  in  Ambassador  Jusserand's  English  Wayfaring  Life,  pp.  308- 
337.  195.  Rouncival,  a  hospital  in  London.  196.  court  of  Rome, 
the  Pope's.  Court  is  used  in  the  same  sense  as  when  we  speak  of  a 
secular  ruler's  (king's  or  emperor's)  court.  197.  "Com  hider," 
probably  a  popular  song  of  the  day.  Cf .  Langland,  line  42,  and  note. 
207.  him  thoughte.  See  note  on  fine  117.  209.  eyen.  Cf.  line 
76,  and  note.  210.  vernicle,  a  copy  of  the  handkerchief  in  St. 
Peter's  Cathedral  upon  which  a  picture  of  Christ  was  said  to  have 
been  miraculously  imprinted.  According  to  the  legend,  St.  Veronica 
wiped  Christ's  face  with  it  on  the  way  to  Calvary.  216.  Berwick 
and  Ware  are  far  apart,  fro  Berwick  unto  Ware  means  "from  one 
end  of  England  to  the  other."  219.  lady.  This  word,  in  Middle 
English  as  in  Anglo-Saxon,  had  no  -s  in  the  genitive.  "Lady  Day" 
(see  dictionary)  is  a  modern  survival  of  the  idiom.  228.  than  that. 
Cf.  note  on  uj/ian</iai,  line  1.  231.  attelaste.  Cf.  line  29,  and  note. 
232.  This  line  means  that  he  performed  well  his  part  of  the  church 
service ;  particularly  as  indicated  by  the  two  fines  foUowing,  though 
we  learn  that  he  was  also  a  good  preacher.  234.  alderbest,  best  of 
all.    alder  is  for  alter  (cf.  fine  321  below),  genitive  plural  of  al,  aU. 

243.  The  BeU  was  another  inn  named  from  its  sign.  249.  our 
hoste;  his  name  is  given  elsewhere  as  Harry  BaiUy.  The  picture  of 
him  in  these  closing  fines  of  the  Prologue  is  one  of  Chaucer's  best, 


Pages  34-39]  NOTES  447 

and  is  more  fully  drawn  in  several  links  connecting  the  tales.  250. 
joT  to.  Cf.  note  on  line  17.  han,  contraction  of  haven,  have,  mar- 
shal in  a  hall,  director  of  banquets.  252.  Chepe,  Cheapside,  a  dis- 
trict of  London.  258.  The  host  saw  that  the  bills  were  paid 
before  he  became  friendly  with  the  company.  266.  He  also 
assumed  that  money  was  a  first  consideration  with  others. 

271.  confort.  The  change  of  n  to  to  in  modern  EngUsh,  called 
"partial  assimilation,"  is  for  ease  in  pronunciation.  275.  if  yow 
liketh;  another  impersonal  construction  like  those  in  lines  207  and 
117.  282.  seche  is  the  form  used  in  the  Southern  dialect,  as  seke 
(Une  17)  is  that  used  in  the  Northern.  A  similar  diflference  is  seen 
in  place-names  derived  from  Latin  caslra,  which  became  Lancaster 
in  the  North,  but  Winchester  in  the  South.  Chaucer  wrote  in  the 
Midland  dialect,  which  was  naturally  a  sort  of  compromise;  and 
he  used  besides  forms  taken  from  both  geographical  extremes. 
298.  Harry  Bailly's  eye  for  business  is  again  evident.  If  the  prize- 
winner is  to  have  a  supper  at  the  expense  of  the  rest,  doubtless  the 
rest  will  eat  with  him;  and  Harry  uses  very  specific  language  to 
make  sure  that  the  feast  will  be  at  the  Tabard. 

321.  was  our  oiler  cok,  was  cock  of  us  all;  i.e.,  roused  us,  as  the 
cock  rouses  people  by  crowing.  324.  the  watering  of  Saint  Thomas, 
a  place  to  water  horses,  was  a  few  miles  on  the  road  to  Canterbury. 
328.  "If  evening  song  and  morning  song  agree";  that  is,  if  your 
decision  this  morning  agrees  with  that  of  last  night.  333.  ferrer. 
Cf.  note  on  Une  137.  337.  neer  is  comparative  of  "  nigh"  ;  "  next " 
is  the  old  superlative.  Modern  English  has  taken  the  old  compara- 
tive for  the  positive,  and  on  that  has  formed  a  regular  comparative 
and  superlative. 

The  Pardoner's  Tale.  —  This  tale  forms  the  greater  part  of  a 
sermon  on  the  Pardoner's  favorite  text  —  Radix  malorum  est  cupi- 
ditas  (1  Timothy  VI,  10 —  "Avarice  is  the  root  of  evils").  Nearly 
200  hnes  omitted  here  (coming  between  our  lines  14  and  15)  give 
numerous  examples  from  Biblical  and  secular  history  to  show  the 
evils  resulting  from  "wine  and  drunkenness."  The  sermon  has  a 
prologue  of  134  fines  in  which  the  Pardoner  explains  in  detail  to  the 
Pilgrims  his  manner  of  preaching.  He  is  for  once  in  his  life  very 
honest,  and  shows  that  in  the  pulpit  he  attacks  the  very  vice  he 
uses  —  avarice.  The  Pardoner,  portrayed  in  the  general  prologue, 
in  the  prologue  to  his  own  story,  in  the  story  itself,  and  in  a  dia- 
logue with  the  host  following  it,  is  one  of  Chaucer's  best-drawn 


448  NOTES  [Pages  40^4 

figures,  and  is  wholly  true  to  fact.  Most  pardoners  were  rascals  of 
the  worst  kind,  against  whom  the  Pope's  orders  and  the  efforts  of 
bishops  were  for  a  long  time  powerless. 

12.  Swearing  by  God's  (that  is,  Christ's)  eyes,  nails,  head,  etc., 
was  formerly  common.  The  modern  "zounds,"  still  occasionally 
heard,  is  the  only  survival  of  this  practice.  It  means  "  by  God's 
wounds."  Line  13  refers  to  the  Crucifixion.  15.  three.  When 
the  Pardoner,  after  a  long  digression  on  "wine  and  drunkenness," 
returns  to  his  tale,  it  occurs  to  him  that  he  can  be  more  effective 
with  a  limited  number  of  "  rioters,"  instead  of  the  indefinite  "  com- 
pany "  with  which  he  began.  17.  for  to  drinke.  See  note  on  Pro- 
logue, 17.  19.  Note  that  the  pronoun  subject  of  the  verb  is 
omitted,  an  idiom  often  found  as  late  as  Shakspere.  Modern  Eng- 
lish permits  the  omission  only  of  the  object  pronoun.  20.  gan 
callen;  merely  the  past  tense.  If  he  had  meant  "began  to  call," 
he  would  have  written  "  bigan  to." 

26.  pardee.  See  note  on  Prologue,  190.  32.  mo  is  not  a  cut 
form  of  "  more."  It  is  derived  from  Anglo-Saxon  ma,  while  "  more  " 
is  from  mara,  though  both  Anglo-Saxon  words  mean  the  same. 
"  mo  "  and  "  more  "  are  distinguished  as  late  as  Shakspere ;  the  former 
is  equivalent  to  our  "more"  (cf.  Macbeth,  5.3.35:  "Send  out  mo 
horses"),  the  latter  to  our  "greater  "  (cf.  Macbeth,  1.  7.  50) : 

"  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man." 

33.  this  pestilence  is  an  allusion  to  the  great  plague  that  swept 
over  England  in  the  latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  century.  46.  God- 
des  armes,  and  Goddes  digne  bones  (line  49)  are  illustrations  of  "tear- 
ing God's  body  to  pieces."     (See  note  on  hne  12.) 

56.  Togidres  is  an  old  genitive  form  used  adverbially.  Of  many 
such  in  earUer  days,  "  needs  "  ("  I  must  needs  go  "),  "  else  "  (originally 
eUes),  and  the  time  adverbs  "once"  {ones),  "twice,"  "thrice"  are 
survivals.  72.  artow,  art  thou;  and  73,  livestow,  livest  thou,  are 
speUings  due  to  pronunciation.  Note  that  although  to-day  we 
write  "don't  you,"  "can't  you,"  etc.,  we  almost  habitually  say 
"donchoo,"  "canchoo,"  etc. 

74.  gan  loke.  See  note  on  line  20.  75.  For  the  double  nega- 
tive, cf.  Prologue,  135,  and  note.  88.  The  old  man  kept  all  his 
earthly  possessions    in    a  chest.      97-8.   See  Leviticus  XIX,   32. 


Pages  45-53]  NOTES  449 

102.  wher  ye  go  or  ryde,  literally,  wherever  you  walk  or  ride. 
106.  partest,  departest.  For  the  same  use  in  a  modern  work  see 
the  first  Une  of  Gray's  Elegy:  "  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting 
day." 

124.  A  gold  florin,  first  coined  in  1343,  was  of  the  value  of  six 
shillings.  The  modern  Enghsh  florin  is  silver,  and  of  the  value  of 
two  shillings.  170.  noot  =  ne  moot,  do  not  know.  173.  shrew. 
Note  that  this  is  now  used  only  as  feminine  and  with  a  very  special- 
ized meaning. 

198.  Cf.  Prologue,  29  and  231,  and  notes  on  these  lines. 
202.  Satan  was  once  given  permission  to  bring  one  of  the  faithful 
to  sorrow.  See  Job  I,  12 ;  II,  6.  215.  nis  =  ne  is,  is  not.  Cf. 
noot,  line  170.  219.  sterve,  die,  is  the  same  word  as  the  German 
sterben.  In  modern  English  its  meaning  has  been  specialized,  and 
its  spelling  changed  to  "  starve."  With  sterve  and  sterben  may  be 
compared  Enghsh  "knave"  and  German  knabe,  where  besides  the 
change  of  consonant  the  English  word,  as  in  the  case  of  sterve,  has 
been  specialized.  The  student  who  cares  to  know  of  other  similar 
changes  of  meaning  will  find  an  interesting  chapter  on  the  subject 
in  Greenough  and  Kittredge's  Words  and  Their  Ways  in  English 
Speech  (chap.  XVII).  228.  shoop,  L'terally,  shaped.  The  verb 
belonged  to  the  "  strong  "  conjugation  in  Anglo-Saxon  and  Middle 
English.  Cf.  storven,  line  242.  232.  There  are  few  tales  with  so 
skillful  a  conclusion  as  this.  Chaucer  gives  abundant  details  in  pre- 
paring for  the  chmax;  but  when  he  comes  to  the  tragic  moment, 
he  wastes  no  words  in  telUng  how  they  killed  each  other,  contenting 
himself  with  saying  that  both  sides  carried  out  their  plans. 

Chancers  Wordes.  —  2.  Boece,  Chaucer's  translation  of  The  Con- 
solations of  Philosophy,  by  Boethius,  a  Roman  philosopher  of  the 
sixth  century.     Troilus,  Chaucer's  long  poem,  TroUus  and  Cressida. 

Popular  Ballads.  —  Sir  Patrick  Spens.  —  1.  Dumferling,  for 
"Dunfermline,"  a  town  sixteen  miles  northwest  of  Edinburgh,  the 
seat  of  a  royal  palace.  Many  Scottish  kings  are  buried  there. 
6.  (who)  sat.  See  note  on  Chaucer's  Pardoner's  Tale,  19.  Cf. 
line  12.  9.  has  written.  Note  how  much  narrative  is  omitted 
between  lines  8  and  9.  Cf.  the  omission  between  20  and  21.  The 
ballads  are  always  notable  for  condensation  and  directness,  braid, 
Scotch  for  "broad";  here  in  the  sense  of  "open,"  "clear." 
30.   shoon,  old  form  for  "  shoes."      32.   swam  aboon,  floated  on  the 


450  NOTES  rPAOBs  54-61 

sxirface  of  the  water.  38.  kerns,  combs.  For  the  form,  cf.  Ger- 
man kamm.      27-8.   Another  version  of  the  ballad  reads  here : 

"  It's  a  token,  maister,  or  ye  were  born, 
It  will  be  a  deadly  storm." 

31.  or,  ere.  In  or  ere  (line  35)  the  ere  is  redundant.  41.  Aber- 
dour  is  doubtless  for  "Aberdeen,"  the  form  found  in  other  versions 
of  the  ballad. 

Bonnie  George  Campbell.  —  Other  versions  have  "James"  instead 
of  George.  Some  editors  have  given  this  ballad  a  definite  historical 
setting ;  but  as  Professor  Child  says :  "  Campbells  enow  were 
killed,  in  battle  or  feud  ...  to  forbid  a  guess  as  to  an  individual 
James  or  George  grounded  upon  the  slight  data  afforded  by  the 
ballad."  1.  Hielands,  the  Scottish  Highlands.  2.  Tay,  a  river 
in  the  Lowlands.  10.  greeting  fu'  sair,  weeping  very  sorely. 
12.   rivin',  tearing.       15.    loom,  empty,     big,  build. 

Lord  Randal.  —  In  addition  to  numerous  British  versions  of  this 
ballad,  there  are  related  ballads  in  nearly  all  European  languages. 

Kemp  Owyne.  —  Disenchantment  by  a  kiss  is  a  widespread  theme 
in  folk-lore.  See  "The  Enchanted  Dragon,"  in  Fairy  Tales  of  All 
Nations,  dee,  do.  11.  Kemp,  champion.  Owyne,  found  in 
medieval  romances  as  "  Owain,"  "  Ywein,"  "  Yvain,"  is  modern 
"Owen."       12.   borrow,  set  free,  ransom.       51.   brand,  sword. 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial.  —  The  second  and  last  lines  of 
the  first  stanza  are  a  meaningless  refrain,  a  feature  frequently  found 
in  primitive  verse  intended  to  be  sung.  Cf.  the  song  in  As  You 
Like  It,  5.  3  : 

"  It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 
With  a  hey  and  a  ho  and  a  hey  nonino." 

10.  The  practice  of  "letting  blood"  was  formerly  common  as  a 
remedy  for  all  sorts  of  diseases.  11.  Kirkly,  probably  Kirkstall 
Abbey,  in  Yorkshire,  the  "Robin  Hood  country."  16.  ring,  the 
"knocker"  which  formerly  served  as  the  modern  doorbell. 
48.  dree,  endure.     We  should  now  say  "  run." 

Caxton.  —  5.  clerk,  scholar.  27.  doubted,  was  apprehensive. 
45.  that  common  English,  etc.  Some  idea  of  the  differences  in  dia- 
lects of  Caxton's  day  may  be  got  by  noting  the  modern  equivalents 
of  various  old  forms.     "Church"  and  "kirk,"  for  instance,  are 


Pages  61-68]  NOTES  451 

merely  different  pronunciations  of  Anglo-Saxon  cirice.  See  note  on 
Chaucer's  Prologue,  282.  48.  Zealand,  a  province  of  Holland. 
49.  Foreland,  a  headland  near  Dover.  56.  In  Middle  English 
there  were  two  forms  for  the  plural  of  egg  —  the  "weak"  form 
eyren  (see  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologtie,  76)  and  the  "strong"  eggys 
(modern  "eggs").  The  first  of  these  disappeared  in  the  first  half 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  68.  uplandish  first  meant  pertaining  to 
uplands ;  later,  pertaining  to  country  districts.  From  the  latter  it 
came  to  mean  "imcultured,"  "unrefined,"  the  sense  in  Caxton. 

Malory.  —  2.  the  French  book  has  not  been  identified.  Malory 
obtained  his  material  from  various  sources.  3.  estates,  classes  of 
people;  in  England,  the  lords  spiritual,  the  lords  temporal,  and 
the.  commons,  or.  See  note  on  Sir  Patrick  Spens,  line  31. 
17.  scripture.  See  note  on  Mandeville,  Une  5.  22.  let  purvey, 
cause  to  be  provided.  33.  livelihood,  liveUness.  35.  nourished, 
foster.       41.    the  lady,  the  queen,  Guinevere. 

Wyatt.  —  1.  fowls,  birds.  See  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  9. 
5.  other,  others.  12.  eyen.  See  note  on  Caxton,  line  56. 
14.   glead,  gleed,  fire. 

Surrey.  —  Description  of  Spring.  —  1.  soote,  sweet.  2.  eke, 
also.  4.  turtle-dove.  5.  summer  is  often  used  in  the  older  poetry 
for  "spring."  spray,  branch.  8.  Jlete,&oat.  11.  miw^s,  mingles, 
mixes. 

Death  of  Priam.  —  Siurey's  translation  of  the  ^neid  is  memor- 
able as  the  first  English  use  of  blank  verse,  the  meter  of  the  EUza- 
bethan  drama,  and  of  most  of  the  long  poems  in  English  literature 
from  Paradise  Lost  to  Idylls  of  the  King.  5.  Hecuba,  Priam's  wife. 
14.  ne,  nor.  15.  Hector  was  the  great  champion  of  the  Trojans. 
He  was  slain  by  Achilles  (see  lines  41-4).  21.  Pyrrhus,  son  of 
Achilles,  called  also  (line  53)  Neoptolem.  40.  thou,  Pyrrhus. 
51.  Pelide,  Achilles.  The  name  means  "son  of  Peleus." 
53.   swerved  out  of  kind,  turned  from  his  natural  self. 

Tyndale.  —  This  selection,  like  the  same  passage  from  Wiclif's 
translation  (see  page  17),  is  printed  with  all  its  peculiarities  of  spell- 
ing as  a  specimen  of  early  sixteenth  century  English. 

Lyly.  —  Queen  Elizabeth.  —  Lyly's  absurd  adulation  of  the  Queen 
is  typical  of  the  attitude  of  the  period  toward  her.     She  was  a  great 


452  NOTES  [Pages  68-73 

sovereign,  and  the  development  of  the  national  life  under  her  rule 
was  most  marked;  but  impartial  historians  do  not  see  her  as  any 
such  paragon  as  she  is  here  presented.  Lyly  also  set  a  fashion  in 
writing,  called  from  his  romance  "euphuism,"  the  chief  characteris- 
tics of  which  may  be  seen  in  the  very  first  sentence  —  overworking 
of  the  balanced  structure  and  antithesis,  and  frequent  use  of  allit- 
eration {prisoner — prince,  castle — crown)  and  play  on  words  (^ead) . 

1.  This  queen,  Mary,  who  died  in  1558.  4.  Elizabeth  was  a 
prisoner  during  the  early  part  of  Mary's  reign,  but  not  at  the  time 
of  Mary's  death.  Lyly  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  for  an- 
tithesis and  alliteration.  9.  Praxiteles,  Greek  sculptor.  10.  her 
son,  Cupid.  16.  Zeuxis,  Greek  painter.  23.  Apelles,  Greek 
painter.  28.  color,  portray.  63.  tickle,  ticklish,  uncertain. 
54.  timst,  slender  thread. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe.  — This  charming  little  song  is  from  one  of 
Lyly's  comedies,  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 

Sidney.  —  Between  1575  and  1600  a  large  number  of  sonnets  were 
written.  It  was  the  fashion  to  write  series  ("  sequences  ")  of  them 
in  honor  of  a  loved  one.     Sidney's  108  record  an  unhappy  love  affair. 

XV.  2.  Parnassus,  mountain  in  Greece  sacred  to  the  Muses. 
4.  poesie,  poetry,  with  perhaps  a  pun  on  "posy."  uyring,  force. 
7.  Petrarch.  See  page  477,  note  on  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet,  4  ff.  8.  deni- 
zened wit,  words  naturalized  in  English.  9.  jar-jet,  far-fetched. 
10.  txiuch,  feeling.  —  The  poet  says  that  any  one  who  wants  the  most 
beautiful  comparisons  need  only  draw  from  Stella's  looks. 

XXXI.  4.  archer,  Cupid.  5.  On  that  following  a  conjunction, 
see  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  line  1. 

Arcadia  is  a  pastoral  romance,  somewhat  like  a  novel.  Sidney 
wrote  it  for  his  sister,  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  and  it  was  not 
published  until  after  his  death.  11.  vnthal,  at  the  same  time. 
16.  accompanable,  having  the  possibility  of  company.  18.  Mud- 
dorus,  Claius  (22),  and  Kalander  (34)  are  characters  in  the  story. 
20-21.  "  the  one  lacking  no  plenty,  the  other  having  no  plenty  but 
of  thmgs  lacking."  This  is  a  good  specimen  of  "euphuistic" 
writing.       29.   unhospitable,  inhospitable. 

Spenser's  spelling  and  vocabulary  are  not  characteristic  of  the 
time,  but  intentionally  archaic.  The  adding  of  superfluous  letters 
(as  in  hoUownesse,  1,  deare,  2),  and  the  omission  of  usual  letters  (as 


Pages  74-78]  NOTES      '  453 

in  brightnes,  5),  result  in  a  queer  looking  page  at  first;  but  this 
sort  of  difficulty  is  only  apparent.  His  archaic  words  make  use  of  a 
large  dictionary  essential.  —  For  The  Faerie  Queene  he  invented  a 
stanza,  since  called  the  "Spenserian,"  the  scheme  of  which  (rhyme- 
order  and  length  of  fines)  should  be  worked  out  by  the  student. 
Of  other  poems  in  this  measure  perhaps  the  most  famous  are  Byron's 
Childe  Harold  and  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  both  of  which  are  repre- 
sented in  this  voliune. 

3.  then,  than.  5.  her,  i.e.,  beauty's.  8.  perst,  pierced. 
9.  dy,  die.  11.  Una  is  the  personification  of  truth  in  an  elabo- 
rate allegory  running  through  the  poem.  17.  her  knight,  the  Red 
Cross  Knight,  hero  of  Book  I  of  The  Faerie  Queene;  typifies  HoU- 
ness.  8.  deryv'd,  diverted.  21.  preace,  press.  37.  fortuned, 
chanced.  39.  salvage,  savage.  42.  attonce,  at  once,  corse,  body. 
43.  pray,  prey,  ny,  nigh.  45.  forse,  force.  48.  weet,  know. 
53.   gan  melt.     See  note  on  Chaucer's  "Pardoner' s  Tale,  20. 

Spenser's  sonnet-sequence  (see  introductory  note  on  Sidney), 
called  Amoretti,  consists  of  eighty-eight  sonnets  addressed  to  EUza- 
beth  Boyle,  afterwards  his  wife. 

XXXIV.     5.   wont,  was  accustomed. 

LXXIX.     1.   credit,  believe.       8.   ensue,  succeed,  follow. 

Prothalamion  was  written  for  the  wedding  of  two  daughters  of 
the  Earl  of  Worcester.  It  tells  of  a  visit  by  the  prospective  brides 
to  Essex  House  (the  stately  place  of  line  11),  on  the  Thames  near 
London.  This  house  had  been  the  home  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
patron  of  Spenser  until  his  death  in  1588  (see  fines  12-13),  and  was 
now  occupied  by  the  Earl  of  Essex  (the  noble  peer  of  line  19).  The 
.  selection  in  the  text,  comprising  the  last  three  stanzas  of  the  poem, 
is  sufficient  to  give  the  student  an  impression  of  the  poet's  smooth, 
musical  verse.  Spenser  is  known  as  "the  poet's  poet,"  and  Pro- 
thalamion shows  admirably  the  quality  that  has  brought  him  the 
designation. 

2.  my  most  kyndly  nurse  is  the  poet's  tribute  to  the  city  of  his 
birth.  6-10.  These  lines  refer  to  the  Temple,  once  headquarters 
of  the  Knights  Templar,  but  now  for  a  long  time  occupied  chiefly 
by  lawyers.  9.  wont;  see  note  on  sonnet  XXXIV,  5.  14.  whose 
want,  the  lack  of  whom,  i.e.,  of  Leicester.  21.  Essex  had  laid 
waste  the  city  of  Cadiz  in  Spain.  22.  The  "pillars  of  Hercules" 
are  promontories  on  the  Strait  of  Gibraltar.  30.  forraine,  foreign. 
31.    Elisa  is  Queen   Elizabeth.      38.   Hesper,   the   evening   star. 


454  •     NOTES  [Pages  7»-85 

43.  Two  gentle  knights,  the  bridegrooms.  47.  twins  of  Jove,  Castor 
and  Pollux,  the  constellation  Gemini  in  the  bauldricke  of  the  heavens 
(48),  i.e.  J  the  Zodiac. 

Bacon.  —  Of  Adversity. —  1.  Seneca,  Roman  philosopher  and 
writer  of  tragedies ;  first  century .     11.   transcendences,  exaggerations. 

20.  in   a   mean,    with    moderation.       21.   temperance,  moderation. 

26.  David's  harp,  the  book  of  Psalms.  37.  incensed,  set  on  fire, 
as  in  a  censer. 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life.  —  2.  impediments,  hindrances. 
11.  impertinences,  things  having  no  pertinence,  i.e.,  not  pertaining 
to  themselves.  19.  liberty,  desire  for  Uberty.  20.  humorous, 
subject  to  hmnors,  or  moods.       25.    churchmen,  priests,  preachers. 

27.  indifferent,  undesirable.  30.  hortatives,  exhortations.  35.  ex- 
haust, exhausted.  40.  Vetulam,  etc.  "He  preferred  his  old  wife 
to  immortality."  Ulysses  was  offered  immortality  by  the  goddess 
Calypso  if  he  would  live  with  her;  but  he  declined  and  went  back 
to  Penelope.  46.  quarrel,  excuse.  47.  one  of  the  wise  men, 
Thales,  Greek  philosopher. 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self.  —  1.  shrewd,  harmful.  6.  right 
earth,  merely  earth,  earthy.  7.  his,  its,  i.e.,  the  earth's.  See  note 
on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  line  1.  15.  eccentric  to,  having  a  different 
center,  i.e.,  aim,  motive.  18.  accessory,  subordinate.  26.  bias 
upon  their  bowl,  weight  upon  the  ball  used  in  bowling,  which  makes 
its  course  a  curve.  27.  after  the  model  of,  shaped  to  accord  with. 
32.  and,  if.  35.  respect,  consideration.  44.  sui,  etc.,  "  lovers 
of  themselves  without  a  rival." 

Of  Youth  and  Age.  —  5.  invention,  ingenuity.  10.  Severus, 
Roman  emperor,  third  century.  11.  Juventutem,  etc.  "  He  spent 
a  youth  full  of  errors,  even  of  acts  of  madness."  14.  Cosmus, 
Cosimo  de  Medici.  15.  Gaston  de  Fois,  French  general,  sixteenth 
century.       16.   composition,     disposition.       20.    them,     old     men. 

21.  abuseth,  deceives.  28.  absurdly  modifies  pursue,  care  not, 
do  not  hesitate.  35.  compound,  mix.  39.  extern,  external. 
43.  the  text.  See  Joel  II,  28.  52.  Hermogenes,  Greek,  second 
century.  57.  TuMy,  better  known  by  his  last  name  Cicero.  Hor- 
tensius,  Cicero's  greatest  rival.  Idem,  etc.  "He  continued  the 
same  when  it  was  no  longer  becoming."  60.  Scipio,  Roman 
general.  Ldvy,  Roman  historian.  61.  Ultima,  etc.  "His  end 
fell  below  his  beginning." 


Pages  86-90]  NOTES  455 

Of  Studies.  — 10.  humour,  peculiarity.  14.  contemn,  despise, 
consider  of  little  value.  16.  loithout,  beyond.  22.  curiously, 
with  great  care.  31.  present,  quick.  35.  Abeunt,  etc.  "Studies 
develop  into  habits."  36.  stand,  hindrance.  45.  cymini  sec- 
tores,  hair-splitters;  persons  given  to  making  fine  distinctions. 
48.   receipt,  remedy. 

Bacon's  condensed  style  produces  many  memorable  passages. 
The  last  essay  alone  contains  a  number  of  sayings  that  have  almost 
become  proverbs. 

Marlowe.  —  A  Boast  of  Tamburlaine  is  a  typical  example  of 
what  Ben  Jonson  called  "  Marlowe's  mighty  line."  Tamburlaine 
was  a  Scythian  shepherd  who  aspired  to  conquer  the  whole  world, 
and  almost  succeeded  in  doing  so.  Marlowe  makes  him  almost  the 
personification  of  the  desire  for  power. 

6.  Cynthia,  the  moon.  10.  your  turning  spheres,  the  stars. 
13.  Bithynia,  in  ancient  times,  a  country  in  Asia  Minor.  14.  ex- 
halation; five  syllables  here.  The  suffix  -tion  is  frequently  counted 
as  two  syllables  in  poetry.  20.  Clymene's  son,  Prometheus. 
21.    axle-tree,  axis. 

Shakspere.  —  Since  considerations  of  space  prevent  printing  a 
complete  play  here,  the  greatest  of  all  English  poets  is  represented 
by  some  songs  and  sonnets.  The  Elizabethan  Age  is  almost  as 
notable  for  lyric  verse  as  for  dramatic ;  and  Shakspere  surpassed  all 
writers  in  both  fields. 

Over  hiU,  etc.,  is  a  song  of  Puck,  the  fairy.  2.  thorough  is  the 
same  as  "through."  Modern  English  uses  the  first  exclusively  as 
an  adjective,  the  second  as  preposition ;  but  up  to  the  seventeenth 
century  they  were  used  interchangeably.  9.  Queen  Elizabeth's 
body-guard,  her  favorite  attendants,  were  "  Gentlemen  Pensioners." 
"They  were  the  handsomest  men  of  the  first  families,  —  tall,  as 
the  cowslip  was  to  the  fairy,  and  shining  in  their  spotted  gold  coats 
like  that  flower  under  an  April  sun." 

Under  the  greenwood  tree  celebrates  the  joys  of  forest  life  as  seen 
by  an  exiled  duke  and  his  train. 

Hark,  hark !  the  lark.  —  2.  Phoebus,  the  sun.  4.  chaliced, 
shaped  like  chalices,  or  cups. 

Where  the  bee  sucks  is  a  song  by  the  sprite  Ariel,  a  very  different 
fairy  from  Puck. 


456  NOTES  [Pages  91-94 

Sonnets.  —  Many  theories  have  been  advanced  in  explanation  of 
Shakspere's  sonnet-sequence  (see  introductory  note  on  Sidney's 
Astrophel  and  Stella,  page  16).  No  evidence  has  yet  been  cited  to 
identify  with  certainty  any  of  the  persons  alluded  to  in  them,  or 
to  show  that  they  record  any  real  experiences  or  events.  Shakspere 
adopted  a  new  rhyme-scheme  which  the  student  should  examine 
and  compare  with  the  schemes  of  Sidney,  Spenser,  and  later  writers. 

Ben  Jonson.  —  To  the  Memory.  —  This  tribute  by  the  greatest 
contemporary  of  Shakspere's  last  years  was  printed  in  the  first  col- 
lected edition  of  the  dramatist's  works,  known  as  the  First  Folio.  It 
was  published  in  1623,  seven  years  after  Shakspere's  death. 

5.  all  men's  suffrage,  all  men  agree  to  it.  18.  Francis  Beaumont 
was  a  great  dramatist  of  the  day,  who  wrote  most  of  his  plays  in 
conjunctionwith  John  Fletcher.  25.  o/ years,  mature.  27.  Lyly, 
Kyd,  and  Marlowe  were  the  greatest  dramatists  before  Shakspere. 
The  first  wrote  comedies;  under  the  influence  of  which  Shakspere 
wrote  his  early  comedies  —  Love's  Labour's  Lost  and  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona.  The  other  two  were  writers  of  tragedy.  29.  though 
thou  hadst,  etc.  This  line  has  been  frequently  interpreted  to  mean 
that  Shakspere  had  no  education.  Ben  Jonson  was  a  classical 
scholar ;  and  what  he  considered  small  Latin  and  less  Greek  might 
still  be  a  very  respectable  attainment  in  those  languages. 
31.  ^schylus,  Euripides,  and  Sophocles  were  the  greatest  writers  of 
Greek  tragedy;  Pacuvius,  Acdus,  and  him  of  Cordova  {i.e.,  Seneca) 
the  greatest  of  Roman.  34.  buskin  stands  for  tragedy,  because  in 
ancient  times  actors  in  tragedy  wore  buskins,  or  high-heeled  boots. 
Similarly,  sock,  a  slipper  worn  in  comedy,  stands  for  comedy  itself. 
41.  This  line,  probably  the  most  frequently  quoted  singio  passage 
about  Shakspere,  means  that  his  plays  are  uniyersal  in  their  truth 
to  life.  49.  Aristophanes,  Greek  comic  writer;  Terr  nee  and 
Plautus,  Roman.  52.  As,  as  if.  67.  shake  a  lance  may  be  a 
pun  on  the  dramatist's  name.  A  writer  about  the  time  Shakespere 
began  to  write  called  him  a  "Shake-scene."  72.  Eliza,  Queen 
Elizabeth.  75.  rage  or  influence,  power  for  good  or  evil.  The 
terms  are  from  the  science  (so-called)  of  astrology. 

Herrick,  Carew,  Lovelace,  and  Suckling  are  known  as  the 
"  Cavalier"  poets,  because  their  sympathies  were  with  the  Cavaliers, 
or  adherents  of  the  Stuart  kings,  James  I  and  Charles  I.     In  con- 


Pages  95-103]  NOTES  457 

trast  with  them  were  the  "  Puritans,"  of  whom  the  chief  representa- 
tive was  Milton,  and  who  opposed  the  Stuart  rule  and  brought 
about  the  execution  of  Charles  and  the  establishment  of  the  Com- 
monwealth under  Cromwell.  The  Cavahers.  were,  of  course,  the 
aristocrats;  and  their  poets  dealt  with  hghter  subjects,  or  in  a 
lighter  way  with  serious  subjects  than  did  the  Puritans.  Some  his- 
tory of  hterature  should  be  consulted  for  a  detailed  statement  of 
their  characteristics. 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying.  —  Corinna  is  a  fanciful  name,  not 
representing,  so  far  as  we  know,  any  real  person.  The  same  is  true 
of  other  names  in  succeeding  poems  —  Sapho,  Julia,  CeUa,  Lucasta, 
Althea.  2.  god  unshorn,  the  sun  in  all  his  brilliance;  i.e.,  not 
darkened  by  clouds.  3.  Aurora,  goddess  of  dawn.  14.  May, 
May  flowers.  17.  Flora,  goddess  of  flowers.  22.  against,  until. 
28.  beads,  prayers.  See  "rosary"  in  large  dictionary,  and  note 
on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  line  83.  35.  white-thorn,  hawthorn. 
48.  that.  See  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  Une  1.  51.  green 
gown,  a  tumble  on  the  grass.       65.   or  —  or,  either  —  or. 

To  Phillis.  — 19.  carcanets,  necklaces.  25.  wakes,  festivals. 
30.  hey,  a  country  round  dance.  46.  for  to.  See  note  on  Chau- 
cer's Prologue,  17.       47.   possets  and  wassails  are  mixed  drinks. 

Carew.  —  Song.  —  6.  orbs;  allusion  to  the  "music  of  the 
spheres,"  which  should  be  looked  up  in  the  dictionary.  8.  nard, 
a  fragrant  ointment,  or  the  plant  from  which  that  is  made. 

Lovelace.  —  The  two  poems  given  in  the  text  are  almost  the 
only  poems  of  real  worth  written  by  this  poet.  In  addition  to  their 
value  as  poems,  they  are  memorable  for  two  passages  that  have 
become  almost  proverbial  —  hnes  1 1-12  of  the  first,  and  25-26  of  the 
second. 

To  Althea.  — 10.  allaying,  diluting.  Thames  means  merely 
"water." 

Suckling.  —  Constant  Lover.  —  12.  stays,  delays.  13.  The 
grammatical  error  in  this  line  will  be  found  occasionally  in  the  best 
poets,  and  is  not  always  justifiable,  as  it  is  here,  by  the  requirements 
of  rhyme. 

Milton.  —  L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso  axe  companion  pictures, 
giving  the  views  of  life  held  by  the  "cheerful"  man  and  the  "con- 
templative" man.     They  are  composed  on  the  same  plan,  each 


458  NOTES  [Pages  103-107 

presenting  an  ideal  day.  The  parallelism  is  clearly  indicated ;  and 
the  student  should  note  the  time-references,  and  work  out  the  two 
schemes  for  a  day's  occupation. 

2.  Cerberus,  the  three-headed  dog  that  guarded  the  entrance  to 
Hades.  3.  Stygian  cave,  the  region  where  the  river  Styx  flows, 
i.e.,  Hades.  4.  This  line  is  one  of  the  best  examples  of  "onomat- 
opoeia," or  the  use  of  words  whose  sound  contributes  to  the  sense. 
Note  the  number  of  hissing  sounds.  5.  uncouth,  unknown;  the 
etymological  meaning.  10.  In  the  land  of  the  Cimmerians  there 
was  no  sun,  according  to  Homer  (Odyssey,  XI).  12.  yclept, 
called.  Euphrosyne,  one  of  the  three  Graces.  29.  Hebe,  goddess  of 
youth.  31.  Care  is  the  object  of  derides;  that  (i.e.,  "sport")  is 
the  subject. 

45.  to  come  is  in  the  same  construction  as  to  live  (39),  and  to  hear 
(41).  L'Allegro,  the  cheerful  man  (me,  line  38),  likes  to  come  to  his 
window  and  welcome  the  morning.  62.  liveries,  costumes,  colors. 
67.  tells  his  tale,  counts  his  sheep.  This  old  sense  of  tell  is  found  in 
"teller,"  one  who  counts  money  in  a  bank,  or  one  who  counts  votes 
in  a  legislative  body. 

70.  landskip;  old  sp>elling  of  "landscape."  rownd,  for  " around," 
is  here  an  adverb ;  it  is  subject  of  measures.  77.  Towers  and 
battlements.  Milton  here  probably  gives  a  bit  of  realism,  alluding 
to  the  towers  of  Windsor  Castle,  which  could  be  seen  from  his  home 
at  Horton.  80.  cynosure  means,  first,  the  constellation  familiarly 
known  as  the  "Little  Dipper,"  which  contains  the  pole-star.  It 
later  was  used  for  the  pole-star  alone,  from  which  it  came  to  mean 
(as  here)  any  center  of  attraction.  83  ff.  Corydon,  Thyrsis, 
Phillis,  Thestylis  are  stock  names  in  pastoral  poetry.  85.  messes, 
dishes. 

91.  secure  is  used  here  in  its  etymological  sense,  "free  from  care." 
94.  rebeck  was  somewhat  hke  the  modern  fiddle.  103-4.  she 
.  .  .  he,  narrators  of  the  stories  of  line  101.  friar's  lantern,  will  o' 
the  wisp.       110.    lubber,  clumsy. 

120.  weeds,  garments;  in  this  sense  the  word  is  now  limited  to 
the  phrase  "widow's  weeds."  122.  influence.  The  word  is  bor- 
rowed from  the  science  of  astrology.  Cf.  Jonson's  To  the  Memory 
of  Shakespeare,  75.  125.  Hymen,  god  of  marriage.  132.  sock, 
comedy.  See  note  on  Jonson's  To  the  Memory  of  Shakespeare,  35. 
Ben  Jonson's  comedies  are  noted  for  the  learning  displayed  in  them, 
as  Shakspere's  are  noted  for  their  native  genius. 


Pages  107-1101  NOTES  459 

136.  Lydian  airs,  one  of  the  Greek  modes  of  music,  soft  and  sweet. 
The  others  were  the  Dorian,  bold  and  brave;  and  the  Phrygian, 
brisk  and  spirited.  139.  bout,  turn.  145  ff.  When  Eurydice, 
wife  of  Orpheus,  was  taken  to  the  land  of  shades  (Hades),  Pluto 
was  prevailed  on  by  Orpheus's  music  to  let  her  go  back  to  earth  with 
him  on  condition  that  the  musician  should  not  look  behind  him 
on  the  journey.  When  they  had  nearly  reached  safety,  Orpheus 
turned  to  be  sure  Eurydice  was  following,  and  she  was  snatched 
back  to  Hades. 

II  Penseroso.  —  3.  bested  (accented  on  second  syllable),  profit. 
6.  fond,  foolish.  10.  pensioners.  See  note  on  Shakspere's  Over 
hill,  over  dale,  line  9.  Morpheus,  god  of  sleep  and  dreams. 
18.  Since  Memnon  was  the  handsomest  of  men,  the  poet  infers 
that  his  sister  was  the  most  beautiful  of  women.  19.  starred 
Ethiop  queen,  Cassiope,  changed  into  the  constellation  Cassiopeia. 
29.  Ida  was  a  mountain  near  Troy.  39.  commercing,  communing. 
56.  Philomel,  the  nightingale.  L' Allegro's  bird  (line  42)  is  the 
lark,  bird  of  morning.       59.    Cynthia,  the  moon. 

76.   This  line  is  another  good  instance  of  onomatopoeia,  producing 
a  very  different  effect  from  line  4  of  L' Allegro.     83-84.   The  bellman 
used  to  go  about  the  streets  at  night,  says  an  old  chronicler,  to  ' '  give 
warning  of  fire  and  candle,  and  to  help  the  poor  and  to  pray  for 
the  dead."     His  cries  are  given  in  a  poem  by  Herri ck  as  follows : 
"  From  noise  of  scare-fires  rest  ye  free. 
From  murder,  Benedicite ! 
From  all  mischances  that  may  fright 
Your  pleasing  slumbers  in  the  night, 
Mercy  secure  ye  all,  and  keep 
The  goblin  from  ye  while  ye  sleep !  " 
87.   the  Bear,  the  constellation  known  also  as  the  "  Great  Dipper." 
Since  in  the  latitude  of  England  it  never  sets,  to  outwatch  it  means 
to  stay  awake  all  night.       88.    thrice-great  is  merely  a  translation 
of   "  Trismegistus."     This   Hermes  was  a  philosopher  in  ancient 
Egypt,     unsphere,  recall  from  the  sphere  or  region  in  which  he  now 
dwells.       91.  forsook.     The  use  of  past  tense  instead  of  participle 
is  allowed  by  "poetic  license"  when  the  meter  requires  a  shorter 
word.       95.    consent,    sympathy.       99-100.   These   lines   give   the 
subjects  treated  in  ancient  tragedy.       102.   buskined,  tragic.     See 
note  on  Jonson's  To  the  Memory  of  Shakespeare,  34.     Cf .  L' Allegro, 
132,  and  note. 


460  NOTES '  [Pagbs  110-114 

104.  Musaeus,  a  mythical  poet,  son  of  Orpheus.  105-8.  See 
note  on  L' Allegro,  145.  109.  him,  etc.,  Chaucer.  The  story  here 
alluded  to,  given  to  the  Squire  in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  was  left 
unfinished  by  the  poet.  113.  virtuous,  having  magic  virtue 
(power). 

123.  tricked,  adorned.  124.  Attic  boy,  Cephalus,  beloved  of 
Aurora  (Morn).  125.  kerchieft,  wearing  a  cloud  as  a  head-cover- 
ing. Look  up  "kerchief"  for  etymology  and  original  meaning. 
134.  Sylvan,  a  woodland  deity.  140.  profaner,  more  vulgar ,  or 
common.  148.  The  antecedent  of  his  is  Sleep.  153.  good 
modifies  spirit.  154.  Genius,  spirit.  156.  pale,  enclosure. 
159.  "  Windows  richly  decorated  with  Bible  stories."  162.  quire, 
old  spelling  of  "choir."       170.   spell,  study. 

Lycidas.  —  The  learned  Friend  was  Edward  King,  a  companion  of 
Milton's  at  Christ  College,  Cambridge  (lines  23-31).  He  was 
something  of  a  poet ;  and  Milton  puts  his  memorial  in  the  form  of  a 
"pastoral"  poem,  as  if  one  shepherd  lamented  the  death  of  another. 
Many  of  the  names  and  allusions  are  taken  from  famous  pastoral 
poets  of  ancient  times  —  e.g.,  Damoetas  (36),  Amaryllis  (68),  Neaera 
(69),  Arethuse  (85;  river  celebrated  by  Theocritus),  Mincius  (86; 
river  near  Virgil's  home),  Alpheus  (132;   river  god),  and  Lycidas. 

Lines  1-5  may  be  paraphrased  as  follows :  "  After  some  years  of 
silence  I  again  seek  rewards  as  poet ;  and,  under  stress,  I  must  take 
them  before  my  time."  15-16.  Sisters,  etc.,  the  Muses,  born  at 
the  Pierian  spring,  situated  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Olympus. 
20.  lucky,  favorable.  25.  lawns,  pastures.  29.  battening,  fatten- 
ing. The  passage  beginning  with  line  23  means  that  they  studied 
and  wrote  together.  33.  oaten  flute,  the  musical  instriunent  of 
shepherds,  according  to  pastoral  poets. 

54.  Mona,  the  island  of  Anglesey,  north  of  Wales,  a  home  of  the 
Druids.  55.  Deva,  the  river  Dee,  on  which  is  situated  the  city  of 
Chester,  from  which  King  sailed.  It  is  called  a  xvizard  stream  be- 
cause many  legends  were  associated  with  it.  56.  fondly,  foolishly 
(because  his  dreaming  was  of  no  avail).  58.  the  Muse,  Calliope. 
61  ff.  roui,  etc.  Thracian  women  tore  Orpheus  to  pieces  and 
threw  his  head  into  the  Hebrus,  which  washed  it  ashore  on  the 
island  of  Lesbos.  64-84.  These  lines,  in  which  the  poet  digresses 
from  his  theme,  lament  the  low  state  of  poetry :  67-69  may  indicate 
Milton's  opinion  of  Cavalier  poetry.  64.  what  boots  it,  of  what  use 
is  it.       75.   Fury,  Atropos,  the  third  Fate,  who  cuts  the  thread  of  life. 


Pages  115-118]  NOTES  461 

Clotho,  the  first  Fate,  spins  the  thread ;  Lachesis,  the  second,  twists 
it.      77.   Phoebus,  Apollo,  god  of  poetry. 

88.  This  line  means  that  the  poet  has  finished  his  digression 
and  is  returning  to  his  main  line  of  thought.  90.  "That  plead  in 
the  name  of  the  god  of  the  sea."  96.  Hippotades,  ^olus,  god  of 
the  winds.  99.  Panope,  a  sea-nymph.  101.  built  in  the  eclipse. 
In  ancient  times  (not  Milton's),  when  the  cause  of  eclipses  was  not 
known,  things  done  during  such  periods  were  supposed  to  be  un- 
lucky. 103.  Camus,  god  of  the  river  Cam,  on  which  Cambridge 
(seat  of  Milton's  and  King's  university)  was  located.  106.  flower, 
hyacinth,  said  to  have  on  its  petals  the  Greek  for  "alas." 

108-31.  For  comment  on  these  lines,  see  our  selection  from 
Ruskin,  pages  382-8.  124.  See  notes  on  U Allegro,  4,  and  II 
Penseroso,  76. 

133.  Sicilian  Muse,  muse  of  pastoral  poetry;  so  called  from 
Theocritus,  the  greatest  pastoral  poet  of  ancient  times,  who  lived  in 
Sicily.  136.  use,  dwell.  142.  raihe,  early.  This  word  is  foimd 
now  in  the  comparative  form  only,  "  rather."  151.  laureate  hearse, 
bier  decked  with  laurel.  158.  monstrous  world,  world  of  monsters. 
160.  fable,  i.e.,  fabled  home.  Land's  End,  called  Bellerium  by  the 
Romans.  161.  On  St.  Michael's  Mount,  near  Land's  End,  the 
Archangel  Michael  was  said  to  have  appeared ;  and  there  is  still  a 
superstition  that  the  mount  is  guarded  by  him.  162.  Namancos, 
on  which  was  located  the  castle  of  Bayona,  will  not  be  found  on 
modern  maps.  An  old  atlas  locates  it  in  Spain,  near  Cape  Finisterre. 
163.  Angel,  Michael,  ruth,  pity.  176.  unexpressive,  inexpres- 
sible. 184.  in  thy  large  recompense,  as  thy  large  reward.  186.  un- 
couth may  be  understood  either  in  its  old  sense,  "unknown,"  or  in 
its  present  sense,  "rude"  or  "uncultivated."  189.  Doric,  pastoral. 
Theocritus  wrote  in  the  Doric  dialect. 

Truth  and  Conformity.  —  Areopagitica  (Are6paglt'i€a)  is  a  long 
essay  addressed  by  Milton  to  Parliament  in  opposition  to  an  order 
"to  regulate  printing,"  which  required  "that  no  book,  pamphlet,  or 
paper  be  henceforth  printed,  unless  the  same  be  first  approved  and 
licensed"  by  officials  appointed  for  that  purpose.  It  is  a  time- 
honored  argument  for  the  freedom  of  the  press,  of  which  a  great 
deal  of  discussion  has  recently  taken  place  in  connection  with  the 
publication  of  war  news.  The  title  is  from  an  oration  by  Isocrates 
before  the  Areopagus,  or  high  council  of  Athens. 

3.    The  temple  of  Janus.    The  gates  of  the  temple  were  open  in 


462  NOTES  [Pages  118-123 

times  of  war,  closed  in  times  of  peace.  Milton  means  that  at  the 
time  he  wrote  Truth  and  Falsehood  were  at  war.  5.  vnnds  of 
doctrine.  See  Ephesians  IV,  14.  9.  her  confuting,  confuting  by 
her.  12.  discipline  of  Geneva,  doctrines  of  the  Presbyterians  of 
Milton's  day.  13.  fabricked,  fabricated.  17.  to  seek  for  wis- 
dom. See  Matthew  XIII,  44.  38.  Micaiah  did.  See  1  Kings 
XXII,  1-28.  44.  hand-writing  nailed  to  the  cross.  See  Colossians 
II,  14.  45.  See,  e.g.,  Galatians  V,  1.  His  doctrine.  See  Romans 
XIV,  5-9.  54.  a  linen  decency  refers  to  the  use  of  vestments,  and 
means  "a  mere  external  orderliness."  It  was  a  ghost  because, 
though  the  wearing  of  vestments  had  been  suppressed,  the  spirit  of 
it  still  lingered.  67.  subdichotomies,  minor  divisions.  70.  wheat 
from  the  tares.     See  Matthew  XIII,  37^3. 

Sir  Thomas  Bhowne  was,  politically,  a  neutral  during  the  Civil 
War  and  the  Commonwealth.  He  took  up  his  residence  in  a  se- 
cluded country  place,  and  wrote  his  Religio  Medici  ("  Religion  of  a 
Physician")  chiefly  to  examine  his  own  beliefs.  Though  a  member 
of  the  Church  of  England,  he  was  an  early  example  of  a  thorough- 
going reUgious  "liberal." 

Heaven  and  Hell.  — 10.  about,  i.e.,  upon.  14.  Legion.  See 
Mark  V,  1-9.  15.  Anaxagoras,  Greek  philosopher,  fifth  century 
B.C.  conceited,  conceived,  thought.  16.  Magdalene.  See  Luke 
VIII,  2.  18.  ubi  (Latin  conjunction,  "where"),  self,  circum- 
ference, environment.  Sir  Thomas  says  that  a  devil  would  be  miser- 
able without  being  in  hell.  34.  fear,  venerate,  revere,  hold  in 
religious  awe. 

Charity.  —  For  the  sense  in  which  Sir  Thomas  uses  the  word 
charity,  see  our  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  hne  86.  6.  anatomy, 
analysis.  8.  consorts,  agrees.  13.  common  viands,  regular  food. 
29.  composition,  agreement.  30.  conceit,  idea,  notion.  39.  Laz- 
arus. See  Luke  XVI,  19  flf.  41.  wear  our  liveries,  agree  with  our 
reasons.      45.   caitiff,  cowardly. 

Samuel  Pepys  did  not  aim  to  be  a  man  of  letters.  His  Diary 
was  written  in  a  shorthand  system  of  his  own  devising,  and  he  left 
the  MS.  to  Magdalen  College,  Cambridge.  When  it  was  deciphered, 
it  was  found  to  contain  much  of  interest  and  value  concerning  the 
life  of  London  from  1660  to  1669,  with  many  shrewd  observations 
on  great  persons  of  the  Restoration  period. 


Pages  123-131]  NOTES  463 

The  Tempest. —  1.  at  the  office.  Pepys  was  secretary  to  the 
Admiralty.  2.  at  noon.  Regular  performances  were  held  in  the 
afternoon  until  a  much  later  date,  because  of  lack  of  facilities  for 
lighting  the  theaters.  As  late  as  1765  the  chief  theater  in  London 
was  lighted  by  six  chandehers  containing  candles,  and  no  footlights. 
The  word  "matinee,"  which  we  now  use  for  the  afternoon  perform- 
ance, originally  designated  one  held  in  the  morning.  Look  up  the 
derivation  of  the  word.  4.  girl,  maid.  6.  The  King  was  Charles 
II.  37.  blacklead,  pencil  writing.  —  Pepys  was  an  incessant  theater 
goer,  and  his  notes  of  the  performances  he  witnessed  are  a  valuable 
record  of  the  theater  of  his  day. 

The  Great  Fire.  —  This  account,  one  of  the  longest  entries  in  the 
Diary,  makes  no  pretensions  to  literary  merit ;  yet  it  is  admirable  in 
the  vivid  and  realistic  details  given.  Notes  on  the  localities  men- 
tioned would  serve  little  purpose  without  a  map. 

Dryden.  —  This  version  of  The  Tempest  (which  was  probably 
the  one  Pepys  saw)  was  one  of  the  earUest  alterations  of  Shakspere's 
plays.  In  their  original  form  they  did  not  measure  up  to  the  taste 
of  the  Restoration;  and  for  half  a  century  writers  good,  bad,  and 
indifferent  rewrote  and  "improved"  them.  Romeo  and  Juliet  and 
King  Lear  were  changed  so  as  to  end  happily ;  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  was  so  changed  that  Shylock  became  a  comic  figure.  Dryden 
had  a  hand  in  altering  several  plays,  among  others  Macbeth  and 
Antony  and  Cleopatra.  The  literary  ideals  of  the  alterers  may  be 
seen  in  the  remarks  just  made  and  in  the  lines  39-46  of  the  present 
selection,  in  which  the  addition  of  "a  man  "who  had  never  seen  a 
woman"  is  called  "an  excellent  contrivance."  Davenant,  whom 
Dryden  so  highly  commends,  had  in  reality  very  slight  literary 
ability.  The  Preface  is  included  here  for  the  light  it  throws  on  the 
taste  of  the  period,  and  as  a  good  specimen  of  the  prose  of  Dryden 
—  the  "father  of  modern  English  prose." 

51.  were.  The  slip  in  grammar  is  Dryden's.  59.  old  Latirt 
proverb :  Posteriores  enim  cogitationes  sapientiores  solent  esse  —  free 
translation:   "second  thoughts  are  wisest." 

Mac  Flecknoe.  —  This  poem  is  a  satire  on  Thomas  Shadwell,  a 
literary  rival  of  Dryden.  The  men  had  been  friends;  but  their 
friendship  was  turned  into  enmity  by  a  sharp  attack  made  on  Dryden 
by  Shadwell,  to  which  Mac  Flecknoe  was  the  reply.  Richard  Fleck- 
noe was  a  very  dull  Irish  poet,  who  had  died  some  years  before  this 


464  NOTES  [Pages  132-137 

poem  was  written.  Dryden  represents  Shadwell  as  a  son  of  Flecknoe, 
chosen  by  the  latter  to  succeed  him  on  the  throne  of  dullness. 

3.  Augusttis,  named  by  JuUus  Caesar  as  his  successor,  came  into 
power  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  became  "  master  of  all  things  " 
(his  own  words)  at  thirty-two.  15  ff.  Dryden's  lines  are  in  the 
language  of  satire,  not  that  of  truth.  Shadwell  was  by  no  means 
so  contemptible  a  writer  as  Dryden  asserts  —  his  plays,  in  fact, 
compare  favorably  with  most  of  Dryden's.  25.  goodly  fabric. 
Shadwell  was  very  fat.  29.  Here  again  Dryden  uses  the  unfair 
language  of  satire.  Thomas  Heywood  and  James  Shirley  were 
late  Elizabethan  dramatists  who  did  not  deserve  such  characteriza- 
tion.      33.   Norioich  drugget,  rough  cloth. 

36.  Shadwell  imitated  Ben  Jonson  in  distinguishing  his  characters 
by  particular  "humours,"  that  is,  whims  or  idiosyncrasies. 
42.  tympany,  inflation  or  distention;  hence,  figuratively  here, 
bombast.  43.  tun,  a  large  barrel.  44.  kilderkin,  a  small  barrel. 
48.  If  this  Une  had  been  fact,  the  question  arises  why  Dryden  wrote 
so  extended  and  vicious  a  reply  to  Shadwell.  50.  Flecknoe  was 
Irish,  but  Shadwell  was  not.  52.  An  iambic  foot  of  poetry  con- 
sists of  an  unaccented  syllable  followed  by  an  accented.  Satire 
was  usually  written  in  iambics,  as  is  Mac  Flecknoe.  56.  Alluding 
to  Shadwell's  fondness  for  puns,  which,  however,  was  shared  by 
virtually  all  the  comic  writers  of  his  day.  57-58.  Shadwell  was  a 
skillful  musician.  60.  Bruce  and  Longville  were  characters  in 
Shadwell's  plays.  64-65.  The  young  prophet  was,  of  course, 
Shadwell ;  his  father  was  Flecknoe. 

Under  Milton's  Picture.  —  The  poet  of  Greece  was  Homer ;  the 
poet  of  Italy,  Dante. 

John  Bunyan.  —  The  student  unacquainted  with  Bunyan  and 
his  greatest  work,  from  which  our  selection  is  taken,  should  look 
them  up  in  some  history  of  literature.  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  is 
one  of  the  world's  great  allegories,  a  form  of  story  in  which  charac- 
ters are  personifications  of  abstract  qualities  and  characteristics. 
Christian  and  Faithful,  on  a  journey  from  the  City  of  Destruction 
to  the  Celestial  City,  stopped  at  the  town  of  Vanity,  where  a  fair 
was  being  held.  Their  behavior  there  led  to  their  trial  and  con- 
demnation, as  set  forth  in  the  selection. 

88.  an  act  of  Pharaoh.  See  Exodus  I,  22.  91.  an  act  of  Neb- 
uchadnezzar.    See  Daniel  III,   6.      95.   an   act   of   Darius.     See 


Pages  138-148]  NOTES  465 

Daniel  VI,  4-9.  Bunyan  was  not  a  well-educated  man ;  but  he  knew 
his  Bible,  and  drew  most  of  his  inspiration  from  it.  136.  Now 
J  saw,  i.e.,  in  a  vision.  The  story  of  the  whole  book  is  given  "  after 
the  similitude  of  a  dream."  Faithful's  end  is  taken,  of  course,  from 
that  of  EUjah.     See  2  Kings  II,  11. 

Swift.  —  The  Battle  of  the  Books  is  one  of  a  number  of  writings 
arising  from  a  controversy  whether  ancient  or  modern  writers  are 
superior.  The  ancient  and  modern  books  in  St.  James's  Ubrary  are 
engaged  in  fight,  when  their  attention  is  attracted  (see  lines  105-8) 
by  the  dispute  of  the  spider  and  the  bee.  This  appeared  to  ^Esop 
very  "parallel  and  adapt"  (Une  126)  to  the  larger  dispute,  as  he 
proceeded  to  demonstrate. 

17.  expatiating  is  used  here  in  its  etymological  sense,  "walking 
about."  29.  toils,  snares.  42.  droll,  be  humorous.  58.  tme 
spirit  of  controversy.  Cf .  Sir  Thomas  Browne  on  the  subject.  Charity, 
60  ff.  99.  whether,  which.  115  ff.  These  lines  refer  to  Dryden's 
modernizing  of  .^sop's  Fables.  116.  tore;  old  form  of  the  parti- 
ciple. 154-6.  The  period  of  the  Restoration  and  the  early  part 
of  the  eighteenth  century  is  notable  for  satire.  Swift  himself  is 
undoubtedly  the  greatest  satirist  in  the  language. 

Argument  against  Abolishing  Christianity  (somewhat  abridged  in 
our  text)  is  a  specimen  of  Swift's  keenest  sarcasm  and  irony,  and 
every  line  must  be  read  from  this  point  of  view.  No  one,  of  course, 
had  propo.sed  to  aboUsh  Christianity;  but  "all  parties  seem  so 
unanimously  determined  upon  the  point,  as  we  cannot  but  allow  from 
their  actions,  their  discourses,  and  their  writings"  (lines  13-15). 
The  essay  is  in  reahty  a  discourse  on  the  manifest  irreUgion  of  the 
people. 

6.  the  Union,  of  England  and  Scotland,  confirmed  in  1707. 
49.  broke  (old  form  for  "  broken"),  tortured  on  the  rack.  59.  deo- 
rum,  etc.  "Offences  to  the  gods  are  the  gods'  concern."  From  the 
Annals  of  Tacitus,  I,  73.  70.  the  allies;  i.e.,  those  of  England  in 
the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession,  terminated  in  1713  by  the 
Treaty  of  Utrecht.  86.  a  perfect  cavil.  In  reading  such  phrases 
as  this  it  must  be  remembered  that  Swift  is  making  only  a  fine 
pretense  of  seriousness.  99.  rendezvoitses,  meeting-places ;  rendez- 
votis  (French)  means,  "assemble  yourselves." 

136.  different  to  is  the  usual  British  form  for  the  American  "  dif- 
ferent from."     It  should  be  noted  that  the  expression  "  different 


466  NOTES  [Pages  148-166 

than,"  though  frequently  heard,  is  neither  British,  nor  American, 
nor  Irish.  153.  daggled-tail,  untidy,  ill-kept.  The  more  common 
word  is  "draggle-tailed."  173.  Asgill,  Toland,  and  Tindal  were 
religious  writers  of  Swift's  day  whose  views  were  particularly  ob- 
noxious to  him. 

Defoe.  —  The  Education  of  Women  shows  very  advanced  thinking 
for  the  author's  day.  4.  parts,  accomplishments.  48.  The 
meaning  of  this  sentence  is  clearer  if  we  supply  the  word  "even" 
before  if.  92.  essay  is  used  in  its  original  (etymological)  sense  of 
"trial." 

Author's  Preface.  —  Robinson  Crusoe  is  the  first  of  Defoe's  adven- 
ture stories,  which  entitle  him  in  the  opinion  of  many  to  be  called 
the  founder  of  the  modern  novel.  The  pretense  of  editing  the  story 
of  a  man's  life  was  widely  accepted  as  fact. 

Crusoe's  Situation.  —  4.  merchandise,  business.  14.  battle. 
Dunkirk  was  taken  from  the  Spaniards  by  the  French  in  1658. 

Crusoe's  Landing.  —  3.  coup  de  grdce  (French),  a  deadly  stroke. 
79.   to  let  him  blood.     See  note  on  Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial,  10. 

How  Crusoe  Baked  Bread.  —  18.  whelming  —  upon,  turning  over 
upon  so  as  to  cover.  22.  mere  is  used  in  its  old  positive  sense,  in- 
stead of  its  modem  negative  sense.    It  means,  virtually,  "  first  class." 

Steele.  —  Prospectus.  —  38  ff.  White's,  noted  as  a  gambling 
house.  Will's,  the  resort  of  literary  men.  When  Steele  was  young, 
Dryden  was  the  most  famous  man  frequenting  Will's.  (See  Ma- 
caulay's  account  of  it  in  this  volume,  page  329.)  Grecian,  resort  of 
lawyers.  St.  James's,  resort  of  Whig  politicians.  48.  plain 
Spanish,  a  simple  wine.  49.  Kidney,  a  well-known  waiter;  with 
a  pun,  jjerhaps,  on  "kidney"  in  the  sense  of  "temperament,"  "dis- 
position." 56.  costing  a  ^wre,  making  a  calculation  based  on  the 
positions  of  the  planets ;  alluding  to  the  practice  of  astrology. 

Mr.  Bicker  staff  Visits  a  Friend.  —  Steele  conducted  The  Tatter 
imder  the  name  of  "  Isaac  Bickerstaflf."  6.  want,  lack,  monitor, 
adviser.  31.  It  was  formerly  the  custom  to  speak  of  unmarried 
women  as  "mistress."  37.  Teramwto,  a  fanciful  name,  represent- 
ing no  person  in  particular.  97.  baby,  doll.  98.  gossiping, 
christening.  117.  fuU-bottomed  periwigs,  wigs  full  and  large  at 
the  bottom.  119.  open-breasted,  with  waistcoat  unbuttoned. 
147.   Don  Bdianis,  Guy,  the  Seven  Champions,  Bevis,  popular  figures 


Pages  166-180]  NOTES  467 

in  romance.  153.  Hickerlhrift,  hero  of  fairy  tales.  155.  The 
most  famous  exploit  of  St.  George  was  his  slaying  the  dragon  (the 
devil)  and  his  rescue  from  it  of  the  maiden  (the  church). 

The  Editor's  Troubles.  —  10.  a  paper  office.  Fifteen  years  after 
this  number  of  The  Tatler  there  were  published  two  large  volumes  of 
original  letters  received  but  not  printed  by  the  editor.  17.  Temple- 
bar  separated  the  City  of  London  proper  from  Westminster,  the 
section  occupied  by  the  court  and  the  aristocracy.  18.  the  liber- 
ties, the  City.  21.  Wapping  and  Rotherhithe,  the  shipping  section 
of  the  city.  29.  news  from  Flanders,  news  of  the  War  of  the  Spanish 
Succession.  36.  Ad  Aulam,  "To  the  Court";  Ad  Academiam, 
"  To  the  Learned  " ;  Ad  Populum,  "  To  the  Populace  "  ;  Ad  Clerum, 
"To  the  Clergy."  52.  groat,  fourpence.  58.  conceits,  witty 
expressions.  81.  my  aunt  Margery.  In  number  151  of  The  Tatler 
was  told  how  Mrs.  Margery  Bickerstaff,  great  aunt  of  Isaac,  was 
tricked  by  her  family  into  remaining  single,  in  order  that  they  might 
inherit  her  fortune.  83.  Maud  the  milhnaid.  In  number  75  it 
was  told  that  Sir  Walter  Bickerstaff,  an  ancestor  of  Isaac,  had 
married  a  milkmaid.       106.   suddenly,  soon. 

Addison.  —  The  Campaign  was  written  by  request  of  the  govern- 
ment to  celebrate  the  victory  of  Marlborough  at  the  battle  of  Blen- 
heim (War  of  the  Spanish  Succession).  2.  joined  was  pronounced 
in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  so  that  it  was  a  perfect 
rhyme  for  find. 

Frozen  Words.  —  5.  Sir  John  Mandeville,  reputed  author  of  a 
volume  of  travels.  See  page  21,  and  note.  8.  Ferdinand  Mendez 
Pinto,  a  Portuguese  of  the  sixteenth  century.  He  was  soldier  and 
sailor,  merchant  and  doctor,  missionary  and  ambassador;  was 
taken  prisoner  thirteen  times,  and  sold  into  slavery  seventeen.  His 
Peregrination  is  at  times  inaccurate ;  but  present  opinion  is  that  he 
did  not  wilfully  misrepresent  things  by  his  "  unbounded  imagination." 
17-18.  Addison  is,  of  course,  speaking  ironically.  30.  Hudibras, 
a  poem  by  Samuel  Butler,  satirizing  the  Puritans.  It  was  immensely 
popular  during  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  92.  Wap- 
ping. See  note  on  Steele,  The  Editor's  Troubles,  21.  112.  post- 
humous, after  death.  135.  kit,  a  kind  of  stringed  instrument. 
141.   tusr  le  temps  (French),  to  pass  the  time. 

Mr.  Spectator.  —  2.  black,  dark.  33.  nonage,  minority.  35. 
parts,  abilities.      88.    Whigs  and  Tories,  the  chief  political  parties. 


468  NOTES  [Pages  180-192 

Addison  was  a  Whig.  111.  spoken  to.  In  parliamentary  lan- 
guage, one  speaks  to  a  question,  resolution,  or  subject  under  con- 
sideration. 131.  The  clvh  was,  of  course,  a  fiction.  Most  of  the 
numbers  of  The  Spectator  were  written  by  Addison,  a  somewhat 
smaller  number  by  Steele,  and  a  few  by  others.  The  "Club"  that 
figures  in  the  papers  was  made  up  of  a  country  squire  (Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley),  a  retired  soldier,  a  lawyer,  a  merchant,  a  gentleman  of 
leisure,  and  a  clergyman.       134.   Ldttle  Britain,  a  street. 

Vision  of  Mirzah.  —  1.  ai  Grand  Cairo.  See  page  179,  line  53. 
Addison's  discovery  of  manuscripts,  both  for  this  story  and  for 
Frozen  Words,  is,  of  course,  part  of  the  fiction.  The  stories  are  his 
own.  11.  Bagdat,  for  Bagdad,  a  section  of  Turkey  in  Asia. 
30.  Genius,  a  spirit.  62.  threescore  and  ten,  the  Biblical  allotment 
of  years  to  man.  See  Psalms  XC,  10.  66.  According  to  the 
Bible,  men  lived  much  longer  in  the  early  days  of  the  world  than  now. 
Methuselah,  the  oldest  man,  is  said  to  have  hved  969  years.  See 
Genesis  V,  27.  95.  bubbles,  worthless  things  to  the  gaining  of  which 
some  men  devote  their  whole  lives. 

Pope.  —  2.  Pierian  spring.  See  note  on  Lycidas,  15.  3-4.  On 
the  rhyme,  see  note  on  Addison's  Marlborough,  2. 

Thomson  was  one  of  the  first  poets  to  break  away  from  the  in- 
fluence of  Pope;  shown  here  in  his  use  of  blank  verse  instead  of 
rhymed  couplets,  and  in  his  theme  (line  3)  —  scenes  and  objects  of 
nature. 

Spring.  —  20-21.  Aries,  the  Ram;  and  Taurus,  the  Bull,  signs 
of  the  Zodiac.     See  note  on  Chaucer's  Prologue,  8.       37.   glebe,  soil. 

Johnson.  —  Chesterfield  aspired  to  a  reputation  as  a  patron  of 
literature.  He  was  famed  for  his  elegant  manners ;  and  at  the  time 
of  Johnson's  call  upon  him  (17  ff.),  he  was  not  prepossessed  with 
the  manners  of  the  uncourtly  scholar.  13.  Le  vainqueur,  etc. 
(French),  "  the  conqueror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  earth." .  30.  shep- 
herd in  Virgil;  in  the  poet's  eighth  Elclogue.  32  ff.  The  remainder 
of  the  letter  is  a  specimen  of  the  finest  satire  in  the  language.  In 
his  dictionary,  probably  remembering  Chesterfield,  Johnson  defined 
patron  as  "  commonly  a  wretch  who  supports  with  insolence,  and  is 
paid  with  flattery."  37.  solitary.  Johnson's  wife  had  died  three 
years  before. 


Pages  193-200J  NOTES  469 

Letter  to  Macpherson.  —  Macpherson  had  published  some  poems 
which  he  claimed  to  be  translations  from  the  ancient  Gaehc  poet, 
Ossian.  Johnson  asserted  that  they  were  forgeries;  Macpherson 
wrote  threatening  him  with  personal  violence;  this  letter,  Johnson 
told  Boswell,  "put  an  end  to  our  correspondence."  10.  your 
Homer.     Macpherson  had  made  a  prose  translation  of  the  Iliad. 

On  the  Art  of  Flying.  —  Rasselas  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  Em- 
peror of  Abyssinia.  According  to  custom  he,  with  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  was  "confined  in  a  private  palace  till  the  order  of  succession 
should  call  him  to  the  throne.  The  place  which  the  wisdom  or 
poUcy  of  antiquity  had  destined  for  the  residence  of  the  Abyssinian 
princes  was  a  spacious  valley,  surrounded  on  every  side  by  moun- 
tains. The  only  passage  by  which  it  could  be  entered  was  a  cavern 
that  passed  under  a  rock.  The  outlet  of  the  cavern  was  concealed 
by  a  thick  wood,  and  the  mouth  which  opened  into  the  valley  was 
closed  with  gates  of  iron  forged  by  the  artificers  of  ancient  days,  so 
massy  that  no  man  could  without  the  help  of  engines  open  or  shut 
them."     (Chapter  I.) 

95  R.  This  passage  is  of  special  interest  in  view  of  the  use  of  air- 
ships in  war  to-day  (1917).  Johnson's  words,  however,  can  hardly 
be  considered  as  prophecy. 

Boswell.  —  This  First  Meeting  took  place  in  1763 ;  Johnson 
was  fifty-five  years  old.  Dairies  was  a  bookseller.  11.  Reynolds 
was  the  most  famous  portrait  painter  of  the  day.  He  made  several 
p>ortraits  of  Johnson.  35.  Miss  Williams,  a  dependent  of  John- 
son's. 40.  Garrick,  then  the  greatest  actor  and  theatrical  manager 
of  London,  had  been  a  pupil  of  Johnson 's ;  and  the  two  had  come 
to  the  great  city  together  to  seek  their  fortune. 

Character  of  Goldsmith.  —  6.  Edward  M alone,  editor  of  Shak- 
spere,  and  friend  of  Boswell.  20.  He  had  sagacity,  etc.  This  sen- 
tence, with  its  many  high-sounding  polysyllables,  is  very  much  in 
Johnson's  own  manner.  Boswell  was  very  jealous  of  any  one  who 
enjoyed  Johnson's  favor  as  Goldsmith  did ;  a  fact  which  prevented 
his  giving  an  altogether  fair  picture  of  Goldsmith.  32.  Nihil,  etc. 
Inaccurately  quoted  from  Johnson's  Latin  epitaph  on  Goldsmith,  in 
Westminster  Abbey :  Qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus  non  tetigit, 
nullum  quod  tetigit  non  omavit  —  "who  failed  to  touch  scarcely  any 
kind  of  writing,  and  failed  to  adorn  no  kind  that  he  touched." 
37.   parterre,  a  flower  garden  arranged  on  some   formal   design. 


470  NOTES  [Pages  200-207 

43.  un  Stourdi,  a  rattle-brain.  54.  Fantoccini,  a  puppet-show. 
76.  The  Traveller;  or,  A  Prospect  of  Society,  is  a  poem  in  which 
Goldsmith  drew  a  series  of  pictures  of  foreign  scenes.  81.  Mrs. 
Piozzi,  intimate  friend  of  Johnson  for  twenty  years.  Her  Anecdotes 
of  Johnson  and  her  letters  are  said  to  be  second  only  to  Boswell  in 
interest.  Sir  John  Hawkins  published  a  life  of  Johnson  a  few  years 
before  Boswell. 

Johnson's  Manner  of  Talking.  —  8.  strongly  impregnated,  etc., 
thoroughly  filled  with  the  spirit  of  Johnson. 

Goldsmith.  —  1.  Auburn  is  not  an  individual  village.  It  con- 
tains some  features  from  Lissoy  in  Ireland,  Goldsmith's  early  home, 
and  some  from  other  villages  both  in  England  and  Ireland.  4.  part- 
ing, departing.  10.  cot,  cottage.  12.  decent,  comely.  Cf.  II 
Penseroso,  36.  27.  mistrustless,  free  from  mistrust  or  suspicion. 
smutted,  dirty.  The  phrase  means  that  the  youth  was  entirely  un- 
conscious of  the  fact  that  his  face  was  dirty.  34.  all  these  charms 
are  fled.  Goldsmith  wrote  this  poem  to  lament  the  moving  of  popu- 
lation from  the  country  to  the  cities.  38.  The  preacher,  like  his 
village,  is  not  a  photograph,  but  a  composite  picture.  It  is  drawn 
from  the  poet's  father  and  from  his  brother ;  and  some  characteris- 
tics (as,  for  instance,  line  60)  are  from  the  writer  himself. 

The  Schoolmaster  is  a  description  chiefly  of  Goldsmith's  early 
teacher,  "Paddy"  Byrne.  16.  cipher,  work  out  arithmetical 
problems.  17.  presage,  foretell.  18.  gauge,  calculate  the  capacity 
of  barrels. 

The  Retaliation,  a  series  of  humorous  characterizations  of  his 
friends,  was  written  in  reply  to  an  epigram  on  Goldsmith  by  the 
actor  Garrick : 

"Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  Poll." 

6.  Townshend  was  a  Whig  member  of  Parliament.  7-8.  These 
lines  commemorate  Burke's  lack  of  ability  as  a  speaker.  The  House 
of  Commons  would  not  stay  to  hear  his  speeches,  though  they  read 
them,  when  printed,  with  enthusiasm. 

Burke.  —  The  Letter  to  the  Sheriffs,  addressed  really  to  the  whole 
body  of  voters  in  Bristol,  which  Burke  represented  in  Parlia- 
ment, was  occasioned  by  the  passage  of  bills  granting  letters  of 


Pages  209-215]  NOTES  471 

marque  and  suspending  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act  in  certain  cases. 
(See  any  history  of  the  United  States  for  explanation  of  the  meaning 
and  objects  of  these  bills.)  It  expresses  the  same  thoughts  as 
Burke's  better  known  speeches  On  Conciliation  and  On  Taxation  of 
the  American  Colonies.  He  never  wavered  in  his  opposition  to  the 
course  of  government  or  in  his  prediction  of  defeat  for  it.  53.  court 
gazette,  official  publication  of  the  government.  62.  author,  etc., 
Thomas  Paine,  whose  Common  Sense  appeared  several  months  before 
the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord.  —  A  pension  had  been  granted  to  Burke 
by  the  Crown,  and  the  grant  had  been  attacked  by  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale.  The  Letter,  addressed  to  a 
kinsman  of  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham,  a  great  benefactor  of 
Burke,  is  a  review  of  his  services  to  his  country  and  a  defense  of  the 
grant.  A  proposal  to  make  Burke  a  peer,  with  the  title  of  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  had  been  abandoned  when  Burke's  son  died. 

12.   HE,  Burke's  son  Richard. 

Collins.  —  This  Ode  was  written  in  memory  of  British  soldiers 
who  fell  during  the  War  of  the  Austrian  Succession. 

Ode  to  Evening.  —  1.  oaten  stop.  See  note  on  Lyddas,  33. 
7.  brede,  embroidery,  wove,  for  "woven."  See  note  on  It  Pen- 
seroso,  line  91.  11-12.  Cf.  Lyddas,  28.  21.  folding  star,  the 
star  indicating  the  hour  when  flocks  should  be  put  into  the  fold. 
23  ff.  Hours  —  elves  —  nymph  —  Pleasures ;  these  are  all  subjects 
to  prepare.  41.  wont,  is  accustomed.  49.  Sylvan  shed,  trees. 
51,  52.   thy  refers  here,  as  everywhere  else  in  the  poem,  to  "  evening." 

Gray.  —  The  Elegy  is  probably  the  most  famous  English  poem 
composed  between  Milton  and  Wordsworth,  and  its  author  is  by 
most  critics  ranked  as  the  greatest  poet  in  that  period. 

1.  parting,  departing.  7.  beetle.  Cf.  Ode  to  Evening,  11-12. 
26.  glebe,  soil.  32.  This  Une  may  be  called  the  "text"  of  the 
poem.  35.  hour  is  the  subject  of  awaits.  39.  fretted  vault,  ceil- 
ing ornamented  with  carvings.  41.  storied  urn,  burial  urn  orna- 
mented with  pictures.  43.  provoke,  call  forth.  45-48.  "Per- 
haps in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  some  heart  once  filled  with 
inspiration :  hands  that  might  have  governed  a  nation  or  might 
have  written  great  and  moving  p)oetry."  This  paraphrase  may  help 
to  interpret  other  stanzas,  e.g.,  57-60.      62.  genial,  natural. 


472  NOTES  [Pages  215-220 

53-56.  This  stanza,  despite  a  century  and  a  half  of  wearisome 
quotation  and  mis-quotation,  may  still  be  kept  in  mind  as  a  speci- 
men of  truly  great  poetry.  57.  John  Hampden  was  a  prominent 
Puritan  who  refused  to  pay  taxes  levied  illegally  by  Charles  I. 
60.  The  eighteenth  century,  as  a  rule,  believed  that  Cromwell's 
personal  ambition  was  responsible  for  the  bloodshed  of  the  Civil 
War.  71.  (to)  heap,  etc.  Modifies  forbade  (67).  It  means, 
"write  flattering  poetry  to  gain  fame  and  wealth."  Cf.  Lycidas,  64- 
69.  73.  far,  i.e.,  they  being  far.  81.  unlettered  muse,  the  im- 
trained  poets  who  wrote  the  inscriptions  on  their  tombs.  89.  part- 
ing. See  note  on  line  1.  95.  chance,  perchance.  113.  the  next 
(morn). 

CowpER  prefaced  The  Task  with  these  words:  "The  history  of 
the  following  production  is  briefly  this :  A  lady,  fond  of  blank 
verse,  demanded  a  poem  of  that  kind  from  the  Author,  and  gave 
him  the  Sofa  for  a  subject.  He  obeyed ;  and  having  much  leisure, 
connected  another  subject  with  it ;  and  pursuing  the  train  of  thought 
to  which  his  situation  and  train  of  mind  led  him,  brought  forth  at 
length,  instead  of  the  trifle  which  he  at  first  intended,  a  serious 
affair  —  a  Volume . ' ' 

The  poem,  as  Cowper  truly  said,  "  cannot  boast  a  regular  plan  " ; 
nor  has  it  a  clearly-marked  central  theme.  It  contains  some  satirical 
passages,  some  political,  some  descriptive ;  but  the  passages  of 
greatest  merit  are  reflective  in  character,  like  that  given  in  this 
volume. 

The  title  of  Book  II,  "The  Time-Piece,"  Cowper  thought  was 
very  appropriate.  It  "is  intended  to  strike  the  hour  that  gives 
notice  of  approaching  judgment,  dealing  pretty  largely  in  the  signs 
of  the  times."  The  Task  was  written  in  1783-4;  after  much  agi- 
tation the  slave  trade  was  abolished  in  England  in  1808 ;  slavery 
itself  was  abolished  in  all  British  colonies  in  1834.  —  The  first  line 
of  the  Selection  is  an  echo  of  Jeremiah  IX,  2. 

Sonnet.  —  Mrs.  Unwin  was  Cooper's  closest  friend  and  faithful 
companion  for  some  thirty  years.  8.  This  line  makes  a  claim 
found  in  many  poets ;  it  is  almost  a  regular  feature  of  Elizabethan 
sonnet-sequences. 

Burns. —  To  a  Mouse.  —  1.  sleekit,  sleek.  4.  bickerin,  hurry- 
ing,    brattle,    scamper.       5.   lailh,    loath.      rin,    run.       6.   pattle. 


Pages  220-225]  NOTES  473 

plow  spade.  13.  whyles,  sometimes.  14.  maun,  must.  15. 
daimen  icker,  occasional  ear  of  grain,  thrave,  shock.  17.  lave, 
remainder.  20.  silly,  weak,  tt^a's,  walls,  win's, -winds.  21.  big, 
build.  22.  foggage,  rank  grass.  24.  snell,  sharp.  29.  coulter, 
plow.  31.  stibble,  stubble.  34.  but,  without,  hald,  hold,  home. 
35.  thole,  endure.  36.  cranrev^h,  frost.  37.  no  thy  lane,  not 
alone.       40.    a-gley,  awry. 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy.  —  3.  stoure,  dust.  15.  glinted,  glanced. 
21.  bield,  shelter.  23.  histie,  barren.  29.  plow-s/iare.  31  ff. 
When  Burns  moraUzes,  he  frequently  drops  into  EngUsh.  39. 
The  card  is  that  of  the  compass. 

Tarn  0'  Shanter  is  Burns's  only  tale.  It  is  probable  that  the  ex- 
periences at  the  inn  are  much  hke  many  of  the  poet's  own  —  he 
sat  fax  too  often  "bousing  at  the  nappy."  A  public-house  in  Ayr 
said  to  be  Burns's  favorite  resort  is  called  Tam  O' Shanter  Inn. 
The  motto  of  the  poem  is  from  a  translation  of  the  sixth  book  of 
the  ^neid  by  Gawin  (or  Gavin)  Douglas,  a  Scotch  poet  who  died 
in  1522.  Brovmyis  (brownies)  and  Bogillis  (bogles,  bogies)  are 
goblins  or  spirits. 

1.  chapman  billies,  peddler  fellows.  2.  drouihy,  dry,  thirsty. 
4.  tak  the  gate,  take  the  road,  go  home.  5.  bou^ng,  drinking. 
nappy,  ale.  6.  fou,  full,  unco,  very.  8.  mosses,  marshes. 
slaps,  holes  in  fences.  13.  fand,  found.  14.  frae,  from,  ae,  one. 
15-16.  The  poet's  tribute  to  his  birthplace.  18.  as  taen,  as  to 
have  taken.  19.  skellum,,  rascal.  20.  bletherin,  idle-talking. 
blellum,  babbler.  23.  ilka,  every,  melder,  grinding.  24.  siller, 
silver,  money.  25.  naig,  nag,  horse,  ca'd,  driven.  "That  you 
and  the  blacksmith  got  roaring  full  for  every  horse  that  was  shod." 
28.  Kirkton,  Churchtown ;  probably  no  particular  village  is  referred 
to.  30.  Doon.  Ayr  was  on  the  river  Doon.  31.  warlocks, 
wizards,     mirk,  dark. 

33.  gars  me  greet,  makes  me  weep.  39.  ingle,  chimney  corner. 
40.  reamin  swats,  ioa,miQg  ale.  41.  iSotifer,  shoemaker.  43.  lo'ed, 
loved.  59-66.  Cf.  note  on  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  Une  31.  It  may 
be  questioned  whether  the  Scotch  poem  is  improved  by  this  bit  of 
sentimental  Enghsh.  Evanishing  (66)  certainly  seems  not  to  fit. 
61.  Supply  "that"  before /aiZs.  67.  tether,  hold  hack.  69.  This 
Une  means  "  midnight."       71.   sic,  such.       78.    Dez7,  devil. 

81.  skelpit,  hurried,  duh,  puddle.  82.  despising,  regardless 
of.      84.   crooning,  etc.,  humming    some  old    Scotch   song.      86. 


474  NOTES  [Pages  226-230 

bogles,  spirits,  "spooks."  88.  ghaists,  ghosts.  houlets,  owls. 
90.  smoored,  smothered,  birks,  birches,  meikle  stane,  big  stone. 
93.  whins,  inrze.  cairn,  pile  of  stone.  95.  aboon,  above.  96.  St. 
Mungo  was  the  patron  saint  of  Alloway,  but  no  legend  is  known  of 
him  or  his  "mither"  to  explain  why  Mungo's  Well  was  so  called. 
102.  bleeze,  blaze.  103.  bore,  crevice.  105.  John  Barleycorn, 
whiskey.  107.  tip-penny,  twopenny  ale.  108.  usquebae,  whiskey. 
109.  See  note  on  hne  40.  110.  fair  play,  if  you  gave  him  only 
fair  play,     boddle,  a  copper.       114.    unco,  marvelous. 

116.  cotillion  is  here  accented  on  the  first  and  last  syllables. 
brent-new,  brand-new.  117.  hornpipes,  etc.,  Scotch  dances. 
119.  tvinnock  bunker,  window-seat.  121.  towzie  tyke,  shaggy  dog. 
122.  gie,  give.  123.  gart  them  skirl,  made  them  shriek.  124.  dirl, 
rattle.  127.  cantraip  sleight,  magic  trick.  130.  holy  (holy) 
table,  the  communion  table.  131.  aims,  irons.  132.  unchris- 
tened  bairns,  unbaptized  infants.  133.  rape,  rope.  134.  gab, 
mouth.       139.   ain,  own.       140.   stack,  stuck. 

143.  glow'r'd,  stared.  147.  cleekit,  joined  hands.  148.  carlin, 
witch,  swat  and  reekit,  reeked  with  sweat.  149.  coost,  cast,  dud- 
dies,  clothes  ("duds").  150.  linket,  went  at  it.  sark,  smock. 
151.  queans,  young  girls.  152.  A',  all.  153.  creeshie,  greasy. 
154.   seventeen  hunder,  very  fine. 

155.  kend,  knew,  fu'  brawlie,  very  well.  156.  wawlie,  good- 
looking.  157.  cofe.  Same  as  "corps."  158.  Carrick  is  the 
district  of  Ayrshire  south  of  the  Doon.  Carrick  shore,  then,  is  the 
south  shore  of  the  river.  161.  shook,  threshed,  corn,  grain. 
bear,  barley.  163.  cutty  sark,  short  undergarment,  ham,  coarse 
linen.  166.  vauntie,  proud.  168.  coft,  bought.  169.  twa  pund 
Scots  was  equivalent  to  about  eighty  cents. 

171.  cour,  bend  down.  173.  lap  and  flang,  leaped  and  flung. 
174.  souple,  supple,  jad,  "jade,"  lass  (in  either  a  good  or  a  bad 
sense).  176.  een,  eyes.  177.  fidg'd,  fidgeted.  178.  hotched, 
squirmed.  179.  syne,  then.  180.  tint,  lost.  185.  bizz,  buzz. 
fyke,  noise.  186.  byke,  hive.  187.  pv^sie  is  a  hare,  open, 
bark;  predicate  of /oes.       192.   eWn7c/i,  uncanny. 

193.  fairin,  reward.  198.  brig,  bridge.  202.  fient,  "fiend," 
devil.      205.   ettle,  intention.       206.   unst,  knew. 

Auld  Lang  Syne,  days  of  long  ago.  9.  pint-stowp,  drinking- 
cup.  be  your  pint-stowp,  be  good  for  (pay  for)  your  own 
drink.      13.   braes,  hillsides.       14.   gowans,  daisies.       15.  fit,  foot. 


Pages  230-236]  NOTES  475 

17.  paidZed,  paddled,  frum,  brook.  18.  dine,  dinner.  19.  braid, 
broad.  21.  fiere,  comrade.  23.  guid-wiUie,  good-willed,  friendly. 
watight,  draught. 

Willie  Brewed.  —  This  poem  is  printed  as  a  good  specimen  of 
Burns's  "convivial"  verse,  which  all  too  frequently  commemorated 
real  events.  Willie  was  William  Nichol ;  Rob  was  the  poet  himself ; 
Allan  was  Allan  Masterton,  a  musician,  who  afterwards  set  the 
lines  to  music.       8.    bree,  brew.       14.    lift,  sky.     •  15.    nn/le,  entice. 

Flow  Gently.  —  This  poem  is  said  to  be  a  most  faithful  description 
of  the  little  river  about  fifteen  miles  east  of  Ayr;  but  no  original 
for  "Mary"  has  been  found. 

A  Man's  a  Man.  —  The  theme  of  this  p)oem  was  probably  sug- 
gested by  Pope's  line,  "An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 
(See  Memorable  Couplets,  page  188.)  Burns  quoted  Pope's  line  in 
his  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  (Une  166).  Supply  "a  man"  after  is 
there.  8.  goiod,  gold.  9.  hamely,  homely,  plain.  10.  hodden- 
gray,  clothes  made  of  coarse  cloth.  17.  birkie,  fellow.  20.  coof, 
fool.  22.  riband  (ribbon)  and  star  are  badges  of  different  orders  of 
knighthood.       28.   TnauTwi /a',  cannot  accomplish.       36.   grree,  prize. 

Wordsworth.  —  Much  of  what  the  poet  says  in  his  famous 
Preface  is  commonplace  now;  but  in  1800  his  theory  was  revolu- 
tionary, and  aroused  great  opposition  among  the  critics.  The  ideal 
of  Pope,  which  was  essentially  artificial,  had  dominated  English 
poetry  for  a  century;  and  the  new  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and  his 
followers  was  harshly  condemned  for  a  long  time. 

50.  meanness,  insignificance.  65.  all  good  poetry,  etc.  This 
description,  one  reahzes,  is  far  from  true.  It  appUes  to  l5Tic  poetry, 
but  certainly  not  to  long  poems  like  Paradise  Lost  or  Wordsworth's 
own  Prelude  and  Excursion.  Even  a  good  poet  can  hardly  be 
spontaneous  for  10,000  lines. 

Passages  Dealing  with  Poetry  in  General.  —  Wordsworth  is  now 
recognized  as  one  of  the  greatest  EngUsh  critics.  Among  the  passages 
given  none  would  be  more  helpful  for  men  to  understand  and  act 
upon  than  that  in  line  23.  Abihty  to  appreciate  great  poetry  is  a 
valuable  accompUshment  for  a  "practical,"  busy  man.  25.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  see  note  on  Boswell,  First  Meeting,  fine  11.  As 
first  president  of  the  Royal  Academy  Reynolds  delivered  a  number 
of  Discourses  on  Painting,  in  the  seventh  of  which  he  treated  the 
subject  of  taste  in  art. 


476  NOTES  [Pages  237-244 

Expostulation  and  Reply.  —  The  Matthew  of  this  poem  (line  15) 
is  supposed  to  be  William  Taylor,  Wordsworth's  teacher  at  Hawks- 
head,  located  on  Esthwaile  lake  (13). 

The  Tables  Turned.  —  6.  lustre  is  the  object  of  has  spread. 
21  fif.  This  stanza  "  has  been  censured  for  exaggeration,  but  Words- 
worth means  that  in  communion  with  external  nature  a  moment 
may  come  which  will  evoke  from  the  heart  more  moral  energy  than 
can  be  taught  by  books."  (Dowden.)  28.  to  dissect,  in  the  act 
of  dissecting  or  analyzing. 

She  Was  a  Phantom  refers  to  the  poet's  wife.  27.  Note  that  the 
important  word  in  this  line  is  not  perfect,  but  woman,  which  is  set 
over  against  spirit  in  29. 

/  Wandered.  —  Lines  21-22,  felt  by  many  readers  to  be  the  best 
in  the  poem,  were  written  by  Mrs.  Wordsworth. 

Happy  Warrior.  —  "The  above  verses  were  written  soon  after 
tidings  had  been  received  of  the  death  of  Lord  Nelson,  which  event 
directed  the  author's  thoughts  to  the  subject"  (Wordsworth's 
note) ;  but  some  particulars  of  Nelson's  conduct  prevented  the 
poet  from  "  thinking  of  him  with  satisfaction  in  reference  to  the  idea 
of  what  a  warrior  ought  to  be."  Some  features  in  the  character, 
the  poet  said,  were  taken  from  his  brother  John,  captain  of  an  East 
Indiaman,  who  was  lost  at  sea.  "The  characteristics  insisted  on 
are,"  in  the  words  of  Dowden,  "high  aims,  cultivation  of  the  intel- 
lect, moral  rectitude,  the  power  to  educe  good  from  evil,  tenderness, 
placability,  purity,  fortitude,  obedience  to  the  law  of  reason,  the 
choice  of  right  means  as  well  as  right  ends,  fideUty,  joy  in  domestic 
pleasures,  heroism  in  great  crises  of  life." 

Influence  of  a  Mountain-peak.  —  The  sub-title  of  the  Prelude  is, 
"Growth  of  a  Poet's  Mind;  An  Autobiographical  Poem."  The 
passage  records  an  incident  of  his  school  days  at  Hawkshead. 
1.  her  refers  to  Nature,  mentioned  in  a  previous  line.  17.  elfin 
pinnace,  fairy  boat.  22.  The  huge  peak  is  easily  identified  as 
Old  Wetherlam,  about  five  miles  from  Hawkshead.  23.  instinct, 
imbued,  filled.       24.   struck,  i.e.,  with  the  oars. 

Westminster  Bridge.  —  "  Written  on  the  roof  of  a  coach  on  my 
way  to  France."  (Wordsworth's  note.)  His  sister  Dorothy,  who 
accompanied  him,  wrote  in  her  Journal:  "We  left  London  on 
Saturday  morning  at  half  past  five  or  six.  We  mounted  the  Dover 
coach  at  Charing  Cross.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  city, 
St.  Paul's  with  the  river,  and  a  multitude  of  little  boats,  made  a 


Pages  245-249]  NOTES  477 

most  beautiful  sight.  The  houses  were  not  overhung  by  their 
cloud  of  smoke,  and  they  were  spread  out  endlessly,  yet  the  sun 
shone  so  brightly  that  there  was  something  like  the  purity  of  one  of 
Nature's  own  grand  sjjectacles." 

London,  1802.  —  This  sonnet  is  the  poet's  lament  for  England's 
lack  of  sympathy  with  the  ideals  of  the  French  Revolution. 

"Nuns  Fret  Not."  —  3.  pensive  citadels,  places  where  they  may 
give  themselves  to  meditation  without  interruption.  6.  Fumess 
fells,  hills  in  Westmoreland  County,  northwestern  part  of  England, 
the  section  where  Wordsworth  hved  for  about  seventy  of  his  eighty 
years.  8.  In  truth  .  .  .  no  prison  is.  Cf.  Lovelace,  To  Althea 
(pages  101-102),  specially  lines  25-26. 

"  The  World  is  too  Much  wUh  Us."  —  Wordsworth  means  that  he 
would  rather  be  a  believer  in  false  deities  and  have  some  feeling  for 
the  divine  in  Nature  than  be  a  professed  Christian  and  have  no 
such  feeling  at  all.  10.  "A  Pagan  nourished  in  a  faith  proved  to 
be  untrue."       13.    Proteus  and  Triton  were  pagan  gods  of  the  sea. 

"Scorn  not  the  Sonnet." — 1.  Critic  .  .  .  honours.  The  sonnet 
had  fallen  into  disfavor  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Very  few  son- 
nets were  composed  in  England  between  Milton  (died  1674)  and 
Wordsworth  (began  this  form  of  composition  about  1800).  2.  loith 
this  key,  etc.  Wordsworth  accepted  the  theory  that  Shakspere's 
sonnets  are  autobiographical.  See  our  note,  page  20.  4  ff.  Pe- 
trarch, Tasso,  and  Dante  were  the  most  distinguished  Italian  sonnet 
writers;  Camoens  was  a  Portuguese.  These  and  Spenser  (line  10) 
wrote  in  honor  or  memory  of  loved  ones.  Milton's  eighteen  sonnets 
{alas,  too  few!),  sixteen  of  which  were  written  during  the  Civil  War, 
cover  a  wide  range  of  subjects. 

C01.ERIDGE.  —  Table  Talk  is  a  collection  of  Coleridge's  chance  com- 
ments, published  after  his  death  by  his  nephew.  Besides  being  a 
great  poet,  Coleridge  was  the  founder  of  modern  English  literary 
criticism ;  and  in  this  field  his  greatest  accomplishment  was  his  in- 
terpretation of  Shakspere. 

Kubla  Khan.  —  Coleridge  says  that  he  composed  two  to  three 
hundred  hnes  on  this  subject  "in  a  profound  sleep."  When  he  awoke 
he  began  to  write  it  out ;  but  after  completing  fifty-four  lines  he  was 
interrupted  by  "a  person  on  business,"  and  could  never  recollect 
the  rest.  ♦ 

Kubla  was  khan  or  emperor  of  China  in  the  thirteenth  century; 


478  NOTES  [Pages  249-253 

Xanadu  was  his  city  of  residence.  13.  athwart  a  cedarn  cover, 
across  a  cedar  wood.  19.  momently,  every  moment.  41.  Mount 
Abora  probably  had  no  existence  outside  of  the  poet's  imagination. 
—  What  the  complete  poem  might  have  been  it  is  idle  to  conjecture. 
The  fragment  is  highly  mystical  and  unintelligible ;  but  its  musical 
quality  is  apparent  to  all,  and  poets  and  critics  have  always  felt  in 
it  poetical  merit  of  the  first  order. 

Byron.  —  Lachin  y  Gair  (pronunciation  indicated  in  the  last  line 
of  each  stanza)  appeared  in  Hours  of  Idleness,  Byron's  first  volume, 
published  when  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  The  mountain,  says 
Byron  in  a  note,  "  towers  proudly  preeminent  in  the  northern  High- 
lands, near  Invercauld.  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  sublime  and 
picturesque  amongst  our  'Caledonian  Alps.'  Its  appearance  is  of 
a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is  the  seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near 
Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent  some  of  the  early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollec- 
tion of  which  has  given  birth  to  these  stanzas." 

5.  Caledonia,  Scotland.  10.,  plaid.  "  This  word  is  erroneously 
pronounced  plod ;  the  proper  pronunciation  (according  to  the  Scotch) 
is  shown  by  the  orthography."  (Byron's  note.)  25-26.  "  I  allude 
here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  the  Gordons,  many  of  whom  fought  for 
the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles,  better  known  by  the  name  of  the 
Young  Pretender."  (Byron's  note.)  27.  Culloden,  scene  of  the 
final  defeat  of  the  Young  Pretender  by  the  English.  Charles  was  the 
grandson  of  James  II,  deposed  by  Parliament,  and  received  support 
from  France  in  his  efforts  to  regain  the  crown  of  England  for  the 
Stuarts.  30.  Braemar  is  in  the  Highlands.  31.  pibroch,  bag- 
pipe.      36.   Albion's  plain,  England. 

Wordsworth.  —  Byron's  Hours  of  Idleness  was  severely  criticized  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers:  A 
Satire  was  his  reply.  Being  "very  young  and  very  angry,"  he  hit 
promiscuously,  and  lived  to  regret  many  sharp  passages  in  the  poem. 
In  his  own  copy  he  wrote  opposite  the  passage  on  Wordsworth.  "  Un- 
just." 

1.  thy  refers  to  Robert  Southey,  as  founder  of  the  "Lake  School" 
of  poetry.  2.  apostate,  one  who  has  forsaken  his  faith.  Words- 
worth's "apostasy"  is  unhesitatingly  set  forth  in  his  Preface  (see 
page  233)  as  well  as  in  his  poems.  5-6.  See  The  Tables  Turned, 
paee  238.  13-15.  Referring  to  a  poem  by  Wordsworth  called  The 
Idiot  Boy.      20.    Bard,  Wordsworth. 


Pages  253-259]  NOTES  479 

The  Bull-Fight.  —  4.  lated,  belated,  vnght,  person.  19.  sheen, 
brightness,  glittering  ornaments.  41.  croupe,  for  "croupade,"  a 
particular  kind  of  leap.  57.  brosi,  archaic  for  "  burst."  60.  brand, 
sword.       62.   conynge,  cunning,  skillful. 

Waterloo.  —  The  scene  of  this  justly  famous  passage  was  a  ball 
given  in  Brussels  by  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  June  15,  1815.  The 
Battle  of  Quatre-Bras,  the  first  of  the  engagements  which  culminated 
at  Waterloo,  June  18,  took  place  the  day  after  the  ball. 
19-27.  Frederick  WUliam,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  nephew  of  Greorge 
III,  was  killed  at  the  head  of  his  troops  at  Quatre-Bras.  His  father 
(25)  had  fallen  at  Auerstadt  in  the  campaign  of  1806  against  Napo- 
leon. 26.  quell,  satisfy.  35.  eyes  is  subject  of  should  meet. 
46.  "Cameron's  Gathering, "  rallying-cry  of  the  Highland  clan  of  the 
Camerons.  47.  Lochiel,  chief  of  the  Camerons.  Albyn,  Gaelic 
name  of  Scotland.  54.  Evan's,  Donald's  fame.  Sir  Evan  fought 
against  Cromwell ;  h's  grandson  Donald  fought  for  the  Yoimg  Pre- 
tender and  was  wounded  at  CuUoden  (see  note  on  Lachin  y  Gair,  27) ; 
his  great-great-grandson,  John  Cameron,  was  mortally  wounded  at 
Quatre-Bras.  55.  Ardennes  is  for  "Soignies,"  the  forest  between 
Brussels  and  Waterloo. 

To  Thomas  Moore  was  written  on  the  eve  of  the  poet's  final  depar- 
ture from  England  in  1816.  Moore  was  Byron's  literary  executor 
and  biographer. 

Stanzas,  Epigram,  and  On  my  Thirty-third  Birthday  express  the 
height  of  Byron's  cynicism,  evidence  of  which  is  found  throughout 
his  works.  "  I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,"  he  writes 
in  Childe  Harold;  and  again,  "  'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  gain  or 
lose,"  In  his  diary  for  Jan.  21,  1821,  he  wrote,  in  a  quite  different 
tone :  "  To-morrow  is  my  birthday  —  I  shall  have  completed  thirty 
and  three  years  of  age !  and  I  go  to  bed  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  at 
having  Uved  so  long,  and  to  so  little  purpose.  —  I  don't  regret  them 
80  much  for  what  I  have  done,  as  for  what  I  might  have  done." 

John  Bull  {Epigram,  4)  is  England  personified,  or  the  typical 
Englishman.  See  Irving' s  essay  on  "John  Bull"  in  The  Sketch 
Book. 

Don  Juan  is  a  poem  of  16,000  lines  in  which  "every  mood  of 
Byron's  complex  and  paradoxical  nature  is  vividly  reflected."  The 
f>oet  called  it  an  "epic";  but  it  is  "an  epic  without  a  plan,  and, 
rightly  speaking,  without  a  hero."  It  is  a  wholly  destructive  satire 
on  life,  with,  nevertheless,  some  splendid  lyric  and  narrative  passages. 


480  NOTES  [Pages  259-268 

The  meter,  ottava  rima,  borrowed  from  the  Italians,  is  peculiarlj- 
suitable  for  satiric  poetry. 

Shellst  is  universally  admitted  to  be  high  in  the  first  rank  of 
lyric  poets.  His  poems  have  for  most  readers  little  meaning ;  they 
are  intensively  "subjective";  a  reader  is  likely  to  be  strongly 
attracted  by  them  or  strongly  repelled.  They  are  in  the  highest 
degree  "poetical,"  and  annotation  can  be  of  little  service  to  them. 
"  The  adjectives  impracticable,  unavaiUng,  and  unsatisfying  are  as 
appUcable  to,  Shelley  and  his  poetry  as  are  winged,  luminous,  angelic, 
and  divine."  (ScheUing,  The  English  Lyric,  page  178.)  "No  poet, 
wrote  Mrs.  Shelley,  "was  ever  warmed  by  a  more  genuine  and  un- 
forced inspiration."  And  of  The  Cloud  and  To  a  Skylark  she  said : 
"They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  listening  to  the  carol- 
ing of  the  bird,  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy ;  or  marking  the  cloud 
as  it  sped  across  the  heavens,  while  he  floated  in  his  boat  on  the 
Thames."     See  Wordsworth,  page  235,  line  65,  and  note. 

West  Wind.  —  21.  Mcenad,  a  devotee  of  Bacchus.  32.  pumice 
means,  of  volcanic  origin ;  but  the  fact  contributes  nothing  to  one's 
understanding  of  the  poem.  Baice's  Bay  is  part  of  the  Bay  of  Naples. 
There  was  once  a  large  city  at  BaiiE,  now  mostly  submerged  (33-35). 
56.  The  adjectives  admirably  described  the  poet.  The  student 
should  read  a  good  sketch  of  his  life. 

The  Cloud.  —  31.  sanguine,  blood-red;  the  etymological  sense  of 
the  word.       81.    cenotaph,  a  tomb  for  a  person  buried  elsewhere. 

Skylark.  —  The  poem  falls  into  four  main  divisions :  direct  descrip- 
tion of  the  lark's  flight  and  song  (1-30) ;  description  of  the  lark  by 
comparisons  (31-60) ;  appeal  to  know  the  source  of  the  lark's  "  rap- 
ture" (61-75) ;  explanation  of  the  superiority  of  the  bird's  song  to 
the  poet's  (76-105). 

Keats.  —  George  Chapman  was  a  late  Elizabethan  dramatist  and 
poet.  His  translation  of  Homer  is,  according  to  Saintsbury,  "the 
only  really  good  one"  in  English  verse,  realms  (1),  kingdoms  (2), 
and  demesne  (6)  have  almost  the  same  meaning.  It  would  be  a 
good  exercise  for  the  student  to  look  them  up  in  a  large  dictionary, 
and  try  to  see  what  shades  of  meaning  Keats  meant  to  convey. 
11.  It  was  Balboa,  not  Cortez,  who  discovered  the  Pacific ;  but  the 
beauty  of  the  sonnet  is  not  in  the  least  marred  by  the  error. 
14.   Darien,  the  Isthmus  of  Panama.  —  The  sonnet  may  be  para- 


Pages  268-2701  NOTES  -     481 

phrased  as  follows :  "  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  good  poetry ;  I  had 
often  heard  of  the  beauties  of  Homer;  but  I  did  not  know  Homer 
(because  of  my  ignorance  of  Greek]  until  I  became  acquainted 
with  Chapman's  translation.  Then  I  felt  as  does  an  astronomer 
when  he  discovers  a  new  planet;  or  like  the  great  explorer  when 
he  discovered  the  Pacific  Ocean  —  stricken  into  silence  by  wonder." 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket.  —  This  sonnet  was  written  by  Keats  in 
a  friendly  competition  with  Leigh  Hunt.  The  latter  was  not  a  great 
poet ;  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether  his  sonnet,  which  we  quote 
for  comparison,  is  inferior  to  Keats's. 

"  Green  little  vaulter  in  the  siumy  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amid  the  lazy  noon. 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon. 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 
O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 
One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 
To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song  — 
Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth." 

Grecian  Urn.  —  It  appears  that  Keats  had  no  individual  um  in 
mind,  but  combined  features  found  in  many  specimens  and  features 
of  his  own  imagining.  He  gives  such  full  details  that  the  reader 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  forming  a  clear  mental  picture  of  the 
legend  (5)  on  it.  3.  sylvan,  of  the  woods.  7.  Tempe,  a  beautiful 
valley  in  Thessaly.  Arcady,  Arcadia,  a  district  in  Greece  inhabited 
by  a  pastoral  people,  and  noted  as  a  place  of  quiet  and  contentment. 
10.  timbrel,  a  sort  of  drum.  11-12.  Heard  .  .  .  sweeter.  The 
poet  seems  to  say  that  he  can  imagine,  more  beautiful  music  than  has 
ever  been  composed.  13.  sensual,  bodily.  15-30.  These  lines 
refer  to  the  "  legend  "  on  the  um,  which  can  not  change.  28.  pas- 
sion is  object  of  above.  41.  hrede,  "braid,"  embroidery — not,  of 
course,  in  its  literal  sense.  44.  tease  .  .  .  thought,  exhaust  our 
powers  of  thinking.  4^50.  Keats  was  a  strong  beUever  in  the 
theory  of  "art  for  art's  sake,"  which  says  that  art  is  justified  if  it 


482  NOTES  [Pages  270-275 

pleases,  whether  it  teaches  anything  or  not.     The  idea  is  well  put 
in  The  Rhodora  of  Emerson : 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  —  The  tradition  upon  which  this  poem  is  founded 
is  set  forth  in  lines  46-54.  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  that  is,  the  eve  before 
St.  Agnes's  Day,  is  January  20.  The  scenes  of  the  poem  are  various 
parts  of  a  medieval  baron's  castle. 

5.  A  beadsman  was  a  pensioner  whose  business  it  was  to  pray  for 
the  soul  of  his  benefactor,  told  his  rosary,  counted  his  beads  (each 
of  which  stood  for  a  prayer).  See  notes  on  L' Allegro,  67,  and  Chau- 
cer's Prologue,  83.  14-16.  The  images  of  dead  knights  and  ladies 
were  in  the  posture  of  prayer  in  oratories  {i.e.,  little  chapels  with  al- 
tars), inclosed  by  railings  described  as  purgatorial  because  of  the  dis- 
comfort suggested.  The  whole  poem  is  distinguished  for  its  pictorial 
quality.  Note  the  number  of  passages  appeaUng  to  aU  the  senses. 
21.  flattered,  beguiled,  charmed.  "Tears,"  says  Leigh  Hunt  in  an 
extended  comment  on  this  word,  "are  the  tributes,  more  or  less 
worthy,  of  self-pity  to  self-love."  31.  snariing  describes  the  sound 
as  it  seemed  to  Porphyro  (75).  34-36.  Another  "pictorial"  pas- 
sage. 37.  argent,  bright  (like  silver).  58.  train  was  explained 
by  Keats  as  referring  to  the  ladies'  robes.  70.  amort,  without 
spirit ;  literally,  as  if  dead  —  French  d  la  mort.  71.  On  St.  Agnes's 
Day  it  was  customary  to  sacrifice  two  lambs,  which  were  shorn 
the  next  day.  81.  sooth,  truth.  Cf.  "  soothsayer."  83-84.  The 
household  of  MadeUne  was  at  enmity  with  that  of  Porphyro.  Cf .  98- 
104.      105.   gossip,  companion.     This  is  a  good  word  to  investigate. 

111.  Well-a-day!  alas!  115.  /loiy  Zoom,  the  loom  on  which  the 
wool  from  St.  Agnes's  lambs  was  made  into  cloth.  Cf.  71,  and 
note.  120.  Only  a  person  with  supernatural  power,  such  as  a 
witch,  could  hold  water  in  a  sieve.  126.  mickle,  much.  158. 
plaining,  archaic  for  "complaining."  171.  Since  Merlin  paid, 
etc.  "The  monstrous  debt  was  his  monstrous  existence  which  he 
owed  to  a  demon  and  repaid  when  he  died  or  disappeared  through 
the  working  of  one  of  his  own  spells  by  Vivien."  See  the  story  in 
Tennyson's  Merlin  and  Vivien,  one  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King. 
173.  cates,  delicacies.  174.  tambour,  a  kind  of  drum,  frame,  a 
round  frame  like  the  edge  of  a  tambour,  used  to  hold  cloth  for  em- 
broidering. 


Pages  276^285]  NOTES  483 

193.  missioned,  sent,  unaware,  unexpectedly.  208.  The  three 
stanzas  following  are  perhaps  the  most  famous  and  effective  picture 
in  the  entire  poem,  if  not  in  the  whole  range  of  English  Uterature. 
Keats  deUghted  in  sense  impressions.  One  will  be  repaid  by  a 
study  of  the  details  here,  and  an  effort  to  realize  the  picture. 
214.  heraldries,  coats  of  arms.  218.  gules,  the  term  used  in  her- 
aldry for  "  red."  The  colors  of  this  stanza  are  due  to  the  many- 
colored  window.  241.  svoart,  swarthy,  dark.  Paynims,  pagans. 
This  line  has  been  variously  explained.  It  may  mean  a  missal  {i.e., 
prayer-book)  on  which  is  a  picture  of  pagans  praying ;  or,  a  missal 
clasped  in  a  pagan  country. 

253-275.  This  passage  should  be  compared  with  208-234. 
257.  Morpheus  was  the  god  of  sleep.  Morphean  amulet,  a  charm  to 
produce  sleep.  262.  azure-lidded.  Keats's  fondness  for  pictures 
led  him  to  coin  words  that  would  express  a  great  deal.  266.  soother, 
more  soothing  or  pleasing.  270.  Samarcand  is  a  city  in  Asia  noted 
for  its  manufactures  of  c>ilk.  Lebanon,  a  range  of  mountains,  also 
located  in  Asia,  was  famous  in  ancient  times  for  its  cedars.  Com- 
pare this  line  with  L' Allegro,  4,  and  //  Penseroso,  76 ;  and  see  the  notes 
on  those  Unes.       277.    eremite,  hermit,  worshiper. 

285.  carpet,  table-cover.  292.  Provence,  a  district  of  southern 
France,  famous  for  its  Uterature,  especially  lyric  poetry.  La  belle 
dam£  sans  merci,  the  beautiful  lady  without  pity.  Keats  wrote  a 
poem  with  this  French  phrase  for  title.  317.  Voluptuous,  giving 
pleasure.  344.  a  boon ;  because  it  served  to  cover  the  noise  of  the 
elof)ement  Porphyro  was  about  to  propose.  349.  Rhenish,  Rhine 
wine,  mead,  a  mixed  drink.  377.  a»^,  prayers;  specifically,  the 
prayer  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  beginning  Ave  Maria,  "  Hail,  Mary,"  of 
which  a  hundred  and  fifty  are  said  in  "  telling  the  beads."  See  lines 
6-6. 

Lamb.  —  Roast  Pig.  —  Lamb  did,  in  fact,  get  the  central  idea 
of  this  story  from  his  friend  M.  (Thomas  Manning) ;  but  there  is  no 
Chinese  manuscript  back  of  it,  and  many  details  are  of  Lamb's  in- 
vention. 10.  elder  brother,  earlier  practice.  15.  lubberly,  awk- 
ward. 20.  antediluvian,  before  ■  the  Flood.  21.  new-farrowed, 
new-bom.  26.  tenement  here  means  merely  "  house."  37.  a 
premonitory  mmstening,  his  mouth  watered  in  anticipation  of  the 
treat.      58.   lovoer  regions,  stomach. 

88.  mess,  dish,  food.      103.  cissize  loicn,  place  for  holding  court  — 


484  NOTES  [Pages  285-293 

but  in  England,  not  China.  The  whole  proceedings  are  English; 
likewise  the  insurance  offices  (123),  which,  needless  to  say,  had  no 
existence  in  ancient  China.  128.  John  Locke  was  a  great  English 
philosopher  of  the  seventeenth  century.  142.  mundus  edibilis, 
world  of  things  to  eat.  143.  princeps  obsoniorum,  chief  of  tidbits. 
147.  amor  immunditioe,  love  of  dirt.  150.  jrrcelvdium,  prelude. 
The  Latin  terms  and  the  high-sounding  words  are  part  of  Lamb's 
burlesque  tone. 

153.  tegument,  skin.  165.  ambrosian,  Uke  ambrosia,  the  food 
of  the  gods.  178.  conversation,  mode  of  Ufe;  a  use  of  the  word 
common  in  the  Authorized  Version  of  the  Bible  —  e.g.,  in  Psalms 
XXXVII,  14.  180.  Ere,  etc.  From  Coleridge's  Epitaph  on  an  In- 
fant. 182.  clown,  rustic.  184.  hath  a  fair  sepulchre,  etc.  A 
humorous  allusion  to  the  last  two  lines  of  Milton's  On  Shakspere: 

"And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die." 

187.  Sapors,  flavors.  213.  viUatic,  belonging  to  the  villa  or 
farm.  The  quoted  phrase  is  from  Milton's  drama,  Samson  Agonistes. 
217.  like  Lear.  See  Shakspere's  King  Lear,  2.  4.  253.  253.  nice, 
discriminating.  258.  intenerating  and  dulcifying,  making  tender 
and  sweet.  265.  St.  Omer's,  a  college  in  France,  which  Lamb  never 
attended.  268.  per  flagellationem  extremam  is  translated  by  the 
phrase  preceding.  276.  barbecue,  roast  whole.  Lamb  here  disn 
tinguishes  between  the  whole  hogs  {grown  porkers  of  line  144)  and 
the  weakling  (the  young  and  tender  suckling  of  line  145).  shalots  are 
a  kind  of  onion,  which  he  would  permit  in  roasting  the  hog,  but  not 
the  young  pig. 

Dream-Children.  —  This  essay  in  connection  with  the  preceding 
shows  how  well  Lamb  understood  "the  intertwining  of  the  ludicrous 
and  pathetic  elements  in  human  nature."  Such  an  understanding 
is  an  essential  characteristic  of  every  real  humorist.  Lamb  had  a 
grandmother  named  Field  who  was  housekeeper  " in  a  great  house"  ; 
and  other  details  of  the  essay  are  known  to  come  from  the  author's 
life  and  experiences.     There  is,  however,  insufficient  evidence  for  the 

existence  of  a  real  Alice  W n  whom  he  courted  for  seven  years ;  and 

Lamb's  well-known  "habit  of  embroidering  fiction  upon  fact"  for- 
bids us  to  accept  readily  any  identification  of  her. 

14.  the  Robin  Redbreasts  covered  the  murdered  children's  bodies 
with  leaves.      41.   Psottery,  the  book  of  Psalms.      96.   JohnL , 


Pao«8  294-2991  NOTES  485 

or  James  Elia  (line  151),  is  Lamb's  older  brother,  whose  death  started 
the  train  of  thought  that  produced  this  essay.  137.  re-presenlmenl, 
reincarnation.  147.  Lethe,  the  river  of  forgetfulness  in  the  other 
world.  151.  £ridye/ Elia  was  the  name  under  which  Lamb's  sister 
Mary  often  appeared  in  his  essays. 

De  Quin'cey.  —  Meeting  with  Lamb.  —  When  this  meeting  took 
place.  Lamb  was  not  a  distinguished  writer ;  and  De  Quincey  "  sought 
his  acquaintance  rather  under  the  reflex  honor  he  had  enjoyed  of 
being  known  as  Ck>leridge's  friend  than  for  any  which  he  yet  held 
directly  and  separately  in  his  own  person."  2.  T/i€  Temp/e  was  the 
residence  of  lawyers  and  law  students.  30.  no  man,  etc.  This 
was  "  late  in  1804  or  early  in  1805  "  ;  that  is,  some  six  or  seven  years 
after  the  publication  of  Lyrical  Ballads  by  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge. See  our  introductory  note  on  Wordsworth.  34.  thai 
Coleridge  and  thai  Wordsioorth,  the  men  as  they  seemed  at  that  time. 

40.  Pariahs,  outcasts.  44.  bravura,  pretentious  exhibition ;  al- 
luding to  the  two  preceding  paragraphs.  45.  a  position,  etc.  In 
1838,  when  this  passage  was  written,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 
were  universally  recognized  as  great  poets.  57.  let  the  reader  figure, 
I  say.  Repeated  from  line  48  to  remind  the  reader  of  the  point  of 
the  sentence.  De  Quincey  was  much  given  to  digressions,  but  rarely 
failed  to  use  this  excellent  means  of  keeping  the  reader  on  the  main 
track  of  his  thought.  72.  canon,  standard.  75.  allow  yourself 
in,  permit  yourself  to  indulge  in.  An  uncommon  but  correct 
idiom. 

80.  The  many  men,  etc.  Ancient  Mariner,  236-7.  83.  Wap' 
ping.    See  note  on  167,  21. 

Apostrophe  to  Opium.  —  De  Quincey  began  the  use  of  opium  to 
alleviate  suffering  from  neuralgia  while  he  was  a  student  at  Oxford. 
He  knew  nothing  of  the  drug;  but  he  Uved  to  discover  that  the 
suffering  it  can  cause  is  infinitely  greater  than  that  arising  from  the 
bodily  ills  it  aims  to  abate.  —  The  first  three  quotations  in  this  pas- 
sage are  from  Wordsworth:  —  the  pangs,  etc.,  from  White  Doe  of- 
Rylstone;  Wrongs  unredressed,  etc.,  from  book  III  of  The  Excursion  ; 
from  the  anarchy,  etc.,  from  book  IV  c;^  The  Excursion;  dishonour 
of  the  grave  is  apparently  an  allusion  to  1  Corinthians  XV,  43. 
15.  Phidias  and  Praxiteles  were  great  Greek  sculptors.  16.  Baby- 
lon became  famous  for  its  magnificence  under  Nebuchadnezzar, 
sixth  century  B.C.    Hekatompylos  means  the  "hundred-gated,"  and 


486  NOTES  [Pages  299-311 

designates  the  Egyptian  city  of  Thebes.  The  Grecian  Thebes  was 
"seven-gated." 

Incident  of  the  Malay.  —  When  the  genuineness  of  this  incident 
was  questioned,  De  Quincey  said  it  was  "recorded  most  faithfully." 
6.  amongst  English  mountains.  The  author  was  living  at  Grasmere 
in  Westmoreland  County,  northwestern  part  of  England.  7.  De 
Quincey  may  have  had  in  mind  any  one  of  several  seaports  on  the 
western  coast.  49.  Anastasius,  an  anonymous  novel,  very  popular 
when  the  Confessions  were  written.  50.  Adelung's  "  Mithridates," 
a  work  on  languages  by  a  famous  German  philologist.  88.  a-muck. 
"  See  the  common  accounts  in  any  eastern  traveler  or  voyager  of  the 
frantic  excesses  committed  by  Malays  who  have  taken  opium,  or 
are  reduced  to  desperation  by  ill  luck  at  gambling."  (De  Quincey 's 
note.) 

From  Pleasure  to  Pain.  —  6.  an  Iliad  of  woes.  The  subject  of 
Homer's  Iliad  is 

"  Achilles'  wrath,  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered." 

Cicero  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Atticus  says :  "An  Iliad  of  woes  [Latin 
maiorum]  hangs  over  us." 

On  Reading  Alovd.  —  1.  in  medias  res,  into  the  middle  of  the  sub- 
ject. 3.  acme,  highest  point.  13.  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons 
were  the  foremost  Shaksperean  actors  of  De  Quincey's  daj'. 
17.  Overstep,  etc.  Quoted  from  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players : 
Hamlet,  act  3,  scene  2.  .  20.  Samson  Agonistes,  hero  of  Milton's 
drama  of  that  name.       23.   Margaret  was  Mrs.  De  Quincey. 

Scott.  —  The  time  of  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  is  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Sir  William  Ashton,  Lord  Keeper  of  the 
Great  Seal  of  Scotland,  had  acquired  the  estate  of  Ravenswood,  of 
the  former  owners  of  which  he  had  been  an  enemy.  Edgar,  called 
the  Master  of  Ravenswood,  was  the  last  representative  of  the  dispos- 
sessed family. 

Soldier,  Rest!  is  the  song  sung  by  Ellen  Douglas  to  James  Fitz- 
James  on  his  arrival  at  the  Douglas  castle. 

Here's  a  Health.  —  Woodstock  is  a  Royalist  picture  of  the  period  of 
the  Commonwealth  (1652).  The  king  treated  is  Charles  II,  restored 
to  the  throne  eight  years  after  the  time  of  the  story. 


PAOB8  312-3231  NOTES  487 

Escape  of  Marmion.  —  Marmion,  having  been  sent  on  a  mission  to 
Scotland  by  Henry  VIII,  was  entertained  by  Douglas  at  the  request 
of  King  Jamss  of  Scotland.  Douglas  had  evidence  that  his  guest 
was  guilty  ot  forgery  and  worse  crimes,  and  therefore  declined  to 
take  his  hand  at  parting.  3.  Surrey  was  commander  of  the  English 
forces,  which  met  the  Scottish  at  Flodden  Field  shortly  after  the 
scene  given  here.  8.  Clara  was  an  heiress  whom  Marmion  hoped 
to  marry.  13.  plain,  complain.  16.  TanlaUon  was  Douglas's 
castle.  39.  Douglas  had  the  title  of  Earl  of  Angus.  56.  SairU. 
Bride,  or  Bridget,  was  the  favorite  saint  of  Angus.  There  was  a 
shrine  to  her  in  Bothwell  Castle,  near  Glasgow.  58.  portcullis,  a 
gate,  usually  of  iron,  which  ran  up  and  down  in  grooves.  60.  rowel, 
spur.  82.  Gavoain  Douglas  was  a  poet  (see  introductory  note  to 
Tarn  O'  Shanter),  and  later,  though  not  at  the  time  of  Marmion,  a 
bishop. 

Austen.  —  The  passage  from  Pride  and  Prejudice  illustrates  well 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  criticism  of  the  author's  work:  "That  young 
lady  had  a  talent  for  describing  the  involvements  and  feehngs  and 
characters  of  ordinary  life  which  is  to  me  the  most  wonderful  I  ever 
met  with."  It  would  be  well  to  compare  it  with  the  selection  from 
The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  in  which  there  is  so  much  more  action 
than  here,  and  so  much  less  clear  portrayal  of  character.  Miss 
Austen's  conversation,  in  which  she  always  excelled,  should  also  be 
compared  with  Sir  Walter's. 

Elizabeth  Bennet  stands  for  the  "Prejudice"  of  the  title;  Mr. 
Darcy  (page  317),  nephew  of  Lady  Catherine  de  Bourgh,  for  the 
"  Pride."  After  a  long  period  of  failure  to  understand  each  other, 
a  mutual  attraction  had  arisen,  rumor  of  which  had  finally  reached 
Lady  Catherine.  42.  Rosings,  the  De  Bourgh  estate.  43.  Sir 
William  Lucas,  friend  of  the  Bennets,  whose  daughter  Charlotte  (line 
52)  had  married  Mr.  Collins  (line  49),  rector  of  the  parish  in  which 
Lady  Catherine  lived.  235.  Lady  Catherine  did  not  know  that 
her  nephew  Darcy  had  a  much  larger  hand  in  the  "  business"  of  the 
marriage,  and  that  only  love  of  Elizabeth  had  moved  him  to  do  so. 
241.   Pemberley,  Mr.  Darcy 's  estate  in  Derbjrshire. 

Macaulat.  —  8.  Who  wrote,  etc.  See  note  on  Goldsmith's  The 
Retaliation,  page  470.  9.  La  Fontaine,  the  famous  French  writer  of 
fables,  was  exceedingly  absent-minded,  and  otherwise  peculiar ;   but 


488  NOTES  [Pages  323-326 

Macaulay  forces  the  point  in  calling  him  a  simpleton.  10.  Hier- 
ocles,  a  Greek  philosopher  of  the  fifth  century.  The  humorous  stories 
to  which  Macaulay  refers  are  now  known  to  be  not  the  work  of 
Hierocles.  19.  Paul  Pry,  a  character  in  a  comedy  by  John  Poole, 
described  as  "  an  idle,  inquisitive,  meddlesome  fellow,  who  has  no 
occupation  of  his  own,  and  is  forever  poking  his  nose  into  other 
people's  affairs."  27.  Tacitus,  Roman  historian,  wrote  a  biography 
of  Agricola,  Roman  governor  of  Britain  in  the  first  century.  Edward 
Hyde,  first  Earl  of  Clarendon,  English  statesman  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  Count  Vittorio  Alfieri,  ItaUan  dramatist  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  wrote  autobiographies.  Samuel  Johnson  wrote  Uves 
of  a  number  of  English  poets.  —  This  selection  shows  Macaulay's 
literary  style  in  characteristic  fashion.  He  is  always  clear  and  forci- 
ble; but  his  prejudices  and  his  fondness  for  antithesis  led  him  to 
great  exaggerations.  Note,  for  example,  line  12,  If  .  .  .  writer; 
and  the  last  sentence ;  and  compare  Carlyle's  estimate  of  Boswell  a 
few  pages  further  on. 

Trial  of  Hastings.  —  1.  Court.  See  lines  19-23.  Hastings,  the 
first  governor-general  of  India,  was  impeached  by  the  House  of  Com- 
mons for  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors,  and  was  tried  by  the  House 
of  Lords.  5.  Westminster,  that  part  of  London  where  the  Houses 
of  Parliament  are  located.  22.  Hastings  had  deposed  Cheyte  Sing, 
Rajah  of  Benares,  and  had  obtained  money  illegally  from  him  and 
from  the  Begums  of  Oude. 

25.  the  hall  of  William  Rufus,  so  called  because  begun  by  that 
king,  is  now  a  vestibule  to  the  Houses  of  Parhament.  27.  Francis 
Bacon,  the  essayist,  was  convicted  of  corruption  as  a  judge. 
28.  Somers,  Lord  Chancellor  from  1696  to  1700,  was  impeached  after 
leaving  office,  but  was  acquitted  when  his  accusers  declined  to  appear 
against  him.  The  Earl  of  Strafford,  Charles  the  First's  chief  adviser, 
despite  his  eloquence,  was  executed  early  in  the  session  of  the  Long 
Parliament.  30.  Charles  the  First  was  condemned  to  death  as 
"  tyrant,  traitor,  and  murderer."  36.  Garter  King-at-arnns,  head  of 
the  heralds'  college,  which  had  supervision  over  coats-of-arms, 
genealogies,  etc.  39.  Upper  House,  House  of  Lords.  47.  Prince 
of  Wales,  afterward  King  George  IV. 

49  ff.  This  paragraph  is  another  fine  specimen  of  Macaulay's 
style,  which  some  critics  condemn  as  "  rhetoric."  The  writer  cer- 
tainly knew  what  he  wanted  to  accompUsh  —  to  present  a  striking 
picture,  and  scarcely  any  will  question  his  success.     The  use  of  the 


Pages  326-330]  NOTES  480 

adverb  there  to  introduce  ten  of  the  thirteen  sentences  keeps  the 
reader's  mind  fix^  on  the  place.  The  second  sentence  contains  & 
general  statement,  with  some  striking  figures  of  speech;  and  a 
number  of  specific  statements  follow.  58.  Siddons.  See  note  on 
De  Quincey,  On  Reading  Aloud,  Une  14.  60.  historian,  etc.,  Ed- 
ward Gibbon.  65.  The  painter  is  Reynolds  (Une  66) ;  the  scholar 
is  Parr  (line  69).  For  Reynolds,  see  note  on  Boswell,  First  Meeting, 
Une  11.  Samuel  Parr  was  noted  for  the  breadth  as  weU  as  the  extent 
of  his  learning.  74.  her  to  whom,  etc.,  Mrs.  Fitzherbert,  a  Roman 
Catholic  lady,  whom  the  Prince  of  Wales  could  not  l^ally  marry. 
76.  th-e  beautiful  mother,  Mrs.  Sheridan,  whose  three  daughters  were 
noted  for  their  beauty.  She  was  a  famous  singer,  and  was  painted 
as  Saint  Cecilia,  the  patron  saint  of  music,  by  Reynolds.  79.  bril- 
liant society,  etc.  A  number  of  the  leading  spirits  in  all  walks  of  life, 
who  frequented  the  "assemblies"  of  EUzabeth,  wife  of  Edward, 
AforUajrw«,  grandson  of  the  Earl  of  Sandwich.  81.  whose  lips,  etc. 
It  was  said  that  a  kiss  from  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire  persuaded  a 
voter  to  vote  for  Charles  James  Fox  in  the  election  of  1780.  Fox  was 
one  of  the  managers  of  the  impeachment  proceedings. 

London  Coffee-Houses.  —  Compare  with  this  selection  Steele's 
Prospectus  (page  160)  and  Addison's  Mr.  Spectator  (page  176). 
Macaulay's  chapter  deals  with  the  year  1685  (see  line  85) ;  but  the 
coffee-houses  remained  an  important  "institution"  until  well  into 
the  eighteenth  century.  12.  Comm^mwealth,  the  government  of 
England  between  the  execution  of  Charles  I  and  the  establishment 
of  CromweU's  Protectorate  — 1649-1653.  The  first  cofifee-house 
was  opened  in  1652.  22.  fourth  Estate.  See  note  on  Malory,  line 
3  (page  451 ).  25.  Thomas  Osborne,  Earl  of  Danby,  was  Lord  Treas- 
urer and  first  minister  of  the  Crown,  from  1673  to  1678.  47.  from 
Paris.  During  the  rule  of  Cromwell,  Charles  II  and  many  of  the 
nobiUty  had  lived  in  Paris ;  and  at  the  Restoration  of  Charles  (1660) 
they  brought  back  French  fashions.  52.  Lord  Foppinglon,  char- 
acter in  Vanbrugh's  comedy,  The  Relapse.  His  dialect  consisted 
chiefly  of  some  affected  pronunciations.  55.  clown,  rustic. 
68.  Perrault,  champion  of  modem  writers  as  opposed  to  ancient. 
Boileau,  champion  of  the  ancients.  See  introductory  note  to  Swift, 
Spider  and  the  Bee,  page  465.  71.  Venice  Preserved  was  a  popular 
tragedy  by  Thomas  Otway  in  1682.  79.  Dryden  was  Poet  Laure- 
ate until  the  Revolution  of  1688.  80.  Racine  and  Bossu  were 
famous  French  writers  of  the  day. 


490  NOTES  [Pages  330-334 

Battle  of  Ivry  celebrates  the  victory  of  Henry  IV,  king  of  Navarre 
and  leader  of  the  Huguenots  after  Coligni's  deatjh,  over  the  Holy 
League  in  1590.  6.  Rochelle,  headquarters  of  the  Huguenots. 
14.  Appenzett,  a  district  of  Switzerland,  spears,  troops.  15.  Henry 
I  of  Lorraine,  third  Duke  of  Guise,  was  killed  two  years  before  Ivry. 
His   brood   means   all  such   opponents  of   the   rightful   monarch. 

16.  Charles  of  Lorraine,  Duke  of  Mayenne,  brother  of  Henry  I, 
Commanded   the   League's   forces,     truncheon,   staff   of   authority. 

17.  Seine,  river  nmning  through  Paris.  It  was  empurpled  by  the 
Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Day.  18.  Coligni,  leader  of  the 
Huguenots,  slain  in  the  Massacre.  30.  oriflamme,  standard,  en- 
sign ;  originally  the  particular  ensign  of  the  king  of  France.  34.  Gvel- 
ders,  Gelderland,  a  province  of  Holland.  Almayne,  Germany. 
36.  LiUes  were  the  royal  device  of  France  from  the  sixth  century. 
They  were  called  golden  lilies  by  the  Itahan  poet  Tasso  in  his  Jeru- 
salem Delivered.  38.  the  snow-white  crest,  the  white  plume  (29)  on 
Navarre's  helmet.  •  42.  Charles  of  Lorraine,  Duke  d'Aumale,  one 
of  the  leaders  of  the  Holy  League.  Flemish  count,  PhiUp  of  Egmont 
(14).  47-48.  The  League  included  Cathohcs  from  other  countries 
as  well  as  France.  Henry's  command  was  intended  to  propitiate 
the  French  Catholics,  with  a  view  to  a  united  country  when  he  should 
be  secure  on  the  throne.  54.  MaxiUan,  Lord  of  Rosny  and  Duke 
of  Sully,  was  one  of  Henry's  most  capable  and  loyal  supiwrters. 
61.  Soldiers  from  both  Austria  and  Switzerland  were  engaged  in  the 
battle.  63.  Philip  II,  King  of  Spain,  who  was  aiding  the  Roman 
Cathohcs  against  Navarre,  pistoles,  money.  The  pistole  was  a  gold 
coin  of  varying  value.  66.  St.  Genevieve  was  the  patron  saint  of 
Paris.     Her  burghers,  then,  were  the  citizens  of  the  city. 

Carlyle.  —  This  passage  on  BosweU  is  from  a  review  of  Croker's 
edition  of  the  Life  of  Johnson,  previously  reviewed  by  Macaulay. 
(See  page  323,  and  note.)  Carlyle's  essay  is  in  reality  an  answer  to 
Macaulay,  and  gives  a  much  fairer  picture  of  both  Johnson  and 
Boswell. 

16.  solid  pudding,  income  from  his  book.  23.  Time.  Carlyle, 
doubtless  under  the  influence  of  his  German  studies,  used  capital 
letters  much  more  freely  than  is  (or  was)  common  among  English 
writers.  35.  Shakespeare  Jubilee,  held  at  Stratford  in  1769.  Bos- 
well appeared  at  a  masquerade  dressed  as  a  Corsican  warrior,  in  com- 
phment  to  Paoh,  the  hero  of  Corsica,  whom  Boswell  admired  greatly. 


Paobs  334-3381  NOTES  491 

The  ribbon  on  his  cap  on  this  occasion  was  not  Corsica  Botioell,  but 
"Viva  la  Liberta."  Macaulay  got  the  story  wrong,  and  Carlyle 
followed  him  in  the  error.      49.  flunky,  a  footoaan. 

56.  Boswell's  father  was  Laird  of  Auchinleck.  Touchwood  is 
Carlyle's  nickname;  cf.  sulphur-brand,  line  64.  58.  schoolmaster, 
Dr.  Johnson,  who  attempted  to  conduct  a  private  school  before 
coming  to  London.  69.  Boswell's  social  posUion  is  set  forth  in  de- 
tail in  the  following  sentences.  75.  Dominie,  schoolmaster. 
78.  proffmatical,  self-important.  79.  atmosphere  of  Heraldry, 
where  blood  and  ancestry  were  of  much  importance.  80.  Gamaliel. 
See  Acts  V,  34.  87.  Advocates,  lawyers.  100.  gulosity,  gluttony, 
greediness.  ffigmanity.  From  the  time  of  Thurlell's  trial  (Carlyle's 
note)  " 'gig'  became  Carlyle's  pet  symbol  for  respectabihty." 

129.  Carlyle  errs  here.  Johnson,  when  Boswell  became  ac- 
quainted with  him,  was  the  foremost  man  of  letters  in  England,  and 
was  receiving  large  returns  for  his  labor.  132.  glass  of  fashion. 
An  allusion  to  Ophelia's  speech,  Hamlet,  act  3,  scene  1,  line  161  ff. ; 
as  is  also  the  observed  of  innumerable  observers  (142).  139.  lick- 
spilUes,  flatterers.  Cf.  plate-licker,  line  151.  150.  The  Feast  of 
Tabernacles  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  harvest  of  fruit,  oil,  And  wine, 
and  was  the  most  joyful  of  all  feasts.  See  Numbers  XXIX,  12-40. 
153.  The  blind  old  woman  was  Miss  WUUams,  a  dependent  of 
Johnson's.  167.  The  meaning  of  Spanielship,  a  word  of  Carlyle's 
coining,  can  be  easily  understood.  173.  The  Outer-House  is  the 
great  hall  in  the  ParUament  House  at  Edinburgh  where  the  Court 
of  Sessions  sits.  The  domestic  Outer-House  would  be  the  entrance 
hall  to  Johnson's  residence,  where  Boswell  might  be  thought  of  as 
sitting  and  deciding  who  should  enter.  Johnson  was  called  "Ursa 
Major,"  the  Great  Bear,  by  Boswell's  father.  Henry  Erskir^e  was 
a  prominent  Scotch  statesman  and  wit. 

Bums.  —  This  passage  is  from  the  fifth  of  a  series  of  six  lectures. 
In  the  others  Carlyle  treated  the  hero  as  Divinity,  Prophet,  Poet, 
Priest  (preacher),  and  King.  In  this  lecture  he  spoke  of  Samuel 
Johnson  (line  15)  and  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  (16),  in  addition  to 
Bums.  He  introduced  his  first  lecture  with  this  sentence:  "We 
have  undertaken  to  discourse  here  for  a  little  on  Great  Men,  their 
manner  of  appearance  in  our  world's  business,  how  they  shaped  them- 
selves in  the  world's  history,  what  ideas  men  formed  of  them,  what 
work  they  did ;  —  on  Heroes,  namely,  and  on  their  reception  and  per- 
formance ;  what  I  call  Hero-worship  and  the  Heroic  in  human  affairs." 


492  NOTES  [Paqes  338-345 

2.  sincerity.  Cf.  The  Hero  as  Prophet:  "I  should  say  sincerity, 
a  deep,  great,  genuine  sincerity,  is  the  first  characteristic  of  all 
men  in  any  way  heroic."  In  an  essay  on  Burns  written  twelve  years 
before  the  lecture  Carlyle  had  said:  "The  excellence  of  Burns  is, 
indeed,  among  the  rarest,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose :  his  Sincerity, 
his  indisputable  air  of  Truth."  10.  Odin,  the  chief  god  of  the 
Scandinavian  mythology,  is  the  central  figure  in  The  Hero  as  Divin- 
ity. 12  ff.  To  appreciate  this  essay  fully,  the  student  should 
read  some  good  sketch  of  Burns's  life.  30.  The  world,  etc.  One 
of  Carlyle's  striking  aphorisms.  46.  phasis;  same  as  "phase." 
54.  Napoleon  obtained  his  first  commission,  the  Artillery  Ldeutenancy, 
at  the  age  of  seventeen.  60.  cynosure.  See  note  on  U Allegro, 
80.  Adversity,  etc.  Another  sentence  of  Carlyle's  that  has  come 
to  be  almost  a  proverb.  69.  "rank  is  but,"  etc.  From  A  Man's 
a  Man,  page  232,  Une  7.  80.  After  the  Edinburgh  visit,  Burns 
took  up  farming  near  Dumfries,  where  he  died  eight  years  later, 
unquestionably  as  a  result  of  too  much  convivial  company. 

Definition  of  History.  —  David  Hume,  EngUsh,  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, wrote  History  of  England.  William  Robertson,  Scotch, 
eighteenth  century,  several  histories.  Herodotus,  Greek,  fifth  cen- 
tury B.C.,  history  of  the  Persian  invasion  of  Greece.  Jean  Frois- 
sart,  French,  fourteenth  century,  history  of  several  countries  of 
Europe.  25.  Carlyle  probably  has  in  mind  the  definition  of  Thu- 
cydides:  "History  is  philosophy  teaching  by  examples."  31  ff.  The 
first  Duke  of  Marlborough,  hero  of  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession 
(1701-1713),  asserted  that  he  knew  no  English  history  except  what 
he  learned  from  Shakspere.  44.  Monkish  Annalists,  monks  who 
kept  record  of  events  year  by  year.  46.  missal,  church  service 
book,  breviary,  prayer  book.  Carlyle  means  that  the  monks  wrote, 
not  as  unprejudiced  historians,  but  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
Church. 

Dickens.  —  Preface  to  "Oliver  Twist."  —  16.  Hogarth,  English 
satiric  painter  of  the  eighteenth  century;  famous  for  his  subjects 
from  low  life.  44.  The  editor  has  been  unable  to  identify  Mas- 
saroni.  He  offers  the  guess  that  the  name  is  an  invention  of 
Dickens,  to  give  a  high-sounding  foreign  designation  to  the  typical, 
more  or  less  attractive,  rogue  of  the  earlier  picaresque  novels. 
45.  Bill  Sikes  is  one  of  the  most  vicious  of  the  criminal  gang  in 
Oliver  Tvxist.     Nancy  is  his  life  companion.       56.   "The  Artful 


Pao«8  346-3561  NOTES  493 

Dodger"  is  a  member  of  the  gang  who  does  nothing  worse  than 
steal.  99.  Jacob's  Island,  described  in  chapter  50  of  the  novel, 
was  in  the  worst  part  of  London's  shipping  quarter.  It  was  "sur- 
rounded by  a  muddy  ditch  known  in  the  days  of  this  story  as  Folly 
Ditch  .  .  .  every  repulsive  Uneament  of  poverty,  every  loathsome 
indication  of  filth,  rot,  and  garbage ;  all  these  ornament  the  banks  of 
Folly  Ditch." 

Mr.  Micawber  is  one  of  the  most  famous  and  delightfully  amusing 
characters  in  Dickens's  most  famous  novel.  His  characteristics  are 
shown  in  the  selection  —  an  "imposing"  appearance,  a  grandilo- 
quent manner  of  sp>eaking,  frequent  and  fragmentary  Uterary  allu- 
sions, and  some  pet  phrases  such  as  "  in  short, "  "  waiting  for  something 
to  turn  up."  25.  Murdstone,  David's  stepfather.  93.  This  "in 
short "  refers  to  visits  to  the  pawnbroker.  115.  Take  him,  etc.  A 
comic  reminiscence  of  Hamlet's  eulogy  on  his  father : 

"He  was  u  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again." 

127.  nineteen  (pounds)  nineteen  (shiUings)  six  (pence) ;  that  is, 
ten  or  fifteen  cents  less  than  twenty  p>ounds.  Twenty  pounds  ought 
(for  "naught")  and  six  means  sixjjence  more  than  twenty  pounds. 
Uriah  Heep  is  the  "villain"  of  David's  story,  though  in  our  selec- 
tion he  appears  to  be  merely  an  unattractive  character.  His  pecul- 
iarities, like  Mr.  Micawber's,  are  on  the  surface,  and  the  author 
seldom  writes  a  page  about  him  without  mentioning  them — his  red 
hair,  his  long,  "clammy"  hands,  his  "imible"  disposition,  his  way  of 
writhing  (line  114).  57.  William  Tidd's  Practice  of  the  Court  of 
King's  Bench  was  a  real  authority  on  common-law  practice  in 
Dickens's  day.  76.  a  numble  is  merely,  of  course,  Uriah's  way  of 
saying  "an  umble." 

George  Eliot.  —  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  her  children,  Tom  and 
Maggie,  and  her  niece,  Lucy  Deane,  is  visiting  her  sister,  Mrs.  Pullet, 
at  Garum  Firs.  Maggie  has  been  guilty  of  several  accidents  before 
this  chapter,  being  so  exceptionally  unfortunate  as  to  offend  her  be- 
loved brother.  She  feels  that  she  is  in  everybody's  disfavor,  and  is 
therefore  not  inclined  to  be  agreeable  to  anybody. 

18.  Medusa's  hair  was  so  beautiful  that  Minerva  out  of  jealousy 
transformed  it  into  snakes.  Her  head  was  then  so  terrible  to  look 
ufmn  that  all  who  did  so  were  turned  into  stone.    All  the  author 


494  NOTES  [Pages  359-373 

means  to  say  is  that  Maggie  looked  very  fierce,  vnth  her  snakes 
cropped  refers  to  Maggie's  having  cut  off  her  own  hair  in  a  fit  of  anger. 
112.  Tt  fUyeOos,  Greek,  "something  great."  151.  corpus  delicti, 
body  of  the  chosen  (or  favored).       231.   spud,  a  kind  of  spade. 

Thackeray.  —  Vanity  Fair  is  a  satire  on  "Society."  Rebecca,  or 
"Becky,"  Sharp,  an  adventuress,  married  Captain  Rawdon  Crawley 
in  expectation  that  he  would  inherit  largely  from  a  rich  old  aunt.  The 
aunt  disinherited  him,  but  he  became  Colonel  in  the  Waterloo  cam- 
paign, after  which  he  left  the  army.  Soon  afterwards  the  two  went 
to  London  to  Uve  "on  nothing  a  year"  —  that  is,  by  the  Colonel's 
gambling  and  his  wife's  cleverness.  Her  principal  victim  was  Lord 
Steyne  (pronounced  like  "stain"),  a  wealthy,  unprincipled  Marquis. 

5.  bonne,  nursemaid.  60.  Magasin  des  Modes,  a  French  fashion 
journal.  79.  holland,  a  fabric  of  cotton  or  linen ;  so  called  because 
first  made  in  Holland.       124.   maitre  d'hotel,  steward. 

Washington  Irving.  —  Nil  Nisi  Bonum  means  "nothing  except 
good."  In  a  sentence  elsewhere  in  the  essay  Thackeray  wrote : 
"And  so  with  Macaulay's  style  there  may  be  faults,  of  course  — 
what  critic  can't  point  them  out?  But  for  the  nonce  we  are  not  talk- 
ing about  faults :  we  want  to  say  nil  nisi  bonum."  1.  John  Gibson 
Lockhart  was  Sir  Walter  Scott's  son-in-law,  as  well  as  his  literary 
executor.  6.  Irving  had  many  characteristics  leading  to  his  being 
called  the  Goldsmith  of  his  day.  Macaulay  was  the  greatest  historian 
of  the  day,  as  Gibbon  was  of  the  preceding  century.  15.  pater 
patriae,  father  of  his  country.  50.  The  medal  was  that  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  Literature.  64.  diplomatized.  Irving  received 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  from  Oxford.  Note  1.  Two  Kings, 
etc.  Alluding  to  an  incident  in  an  old  farce  called  The  Rehearsal. 
131.  Joseph  Rene  Bellot  was  a  young  Frenchman  who  was  lost  in 
the  Arctic  ice  while  a  member  of  the  party  searching  for  Sir  John 
Franklin. 

HxTXLEY.  —  This  extract  is  from  a  lecture  to  workingmen,  to  whom 
Huxley  gave  much  thought  and  time.  "  If  I  am  to  be  remembered 
at  all,"  he  once  said,  "I  would  rather  it  should  be  as  a  man  who  did 
his  best  to  help  the  people  than  by  any  other  title."  He  labored 
continually  to  make  science  intelligible  and  useful  to  unscientific 
people.  34.  Molibre,  greatest  French  writer  of  comedy.  The  play 
referred  to  by  Huxley  is  called  Le  Bourgeois  GentUhomme  (the  "  Mid- 


PAOB8  378-3891  NOTES  495 

die  Class  Gentleman")-  181.  these  kind  is  no  longer  considered 
good  usage,  "kind"  is  singular.  193.  vera  causa,  true  cause. 
257.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  demonstrated  the  law  of  gravitation.  Pierre 
Simon,  Marquis  de  Laplace,  French  astronomer  who  framed  the 
"nebular  hypothesis."  278.  You  may  have  hypotheses,  and 
hypotheses;  that  is,  "there  is  an  enormous  difference  in  the  value  of 
hypjotheses." 

Ruskin's  interpretation  of  Milton  is  rejilly  a  lesson  in  what  "is 
rightly  called  'reading'"  (see  line  208).  11.  pilot,  the  Apostle 
Peter,  who  was  a  fisherman  on  Galilee,  and,  Milton  assumes,  pilot 
of  his  boat.  14.  milred,  wearing  a  miter,  or  bishop's  hat.  Peter 
is  said  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  to  have  been  the  first  bishop 
of  Rome.  24.  are  sped,  have  prospered.  25.  list,  please. 
26.  pipes.  See  note  on  Lycidas,  33.  47.  Ruskin  uses  bishop 
here  in  its  usual  New  Testament  sense  —  synonymous  with  "elder," 
or  priest.  48.  episcopal  power,  power  of  a  bishop.  49.  that 
text.     See  MaUhew  XVI,  17-19.      82.   lords  over.     1  Peter  V,  3. 

116.  Ruskin  may  use  Bill  and  Nancy  in  a  general  sense,  as  we  say 
"every  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry."  Or  he  may  have  in  mind  Dickens's 
Oliver  Twist  (see  Preface,  page  343  ff.,  and  notes),  though  it  is  not  re- 
corded that  Nancy  ever  struck  Bill  Sikes.  121.  Salisbury  steeple 
is  the  highest  among  the  English  cathedrals  —  404  feet.  147  ff.  Both 
quotations  are  from  John  III,  8.  164.  cretinous,  idiotic. 
166.  sectarians,  bigoted  adherents  of  any  sect.  179.  The  inter- 
pretation of  Dante  is  in  the  ninth  book  of  Purgatory,  lines  68-121 
of  Gary's  translation.  187.  have  taken.  Luke  XI,  52.  190.  He 
that  uxUereth.  Proverbs  XI,  25.  197.  rock-apostle,  Peter.  The 
name  is  from  the  Greek  petros,  a  stone.  See  reference  on  line  49. 
Take  him.  See  Matthew  XXII,  13.  —  Ruskin's  conclusion  is  ex- 
pressed too  strongly.  Every  reader  has  a  right  to  his  own  thoughts 
about  an  author  after  he  clearly  understands  what  that  author  says. 

Arnold.  —  For  the  source  of  the  title.  Sweetness  and  Light,  see 
Swift's  The  Spider  and  the  Bee,  pages  138-143.  23.  Arnold  was  a 
great  admirer  of  Sainte-Beuve,  and  the  most  distinguished  English 
representative  of  the  Frenchman's  "school"  of  criticism.  25.  in 
our  English  way.  Arnold  persistently  pointed  out  the  defects  of 
English  life,  and  his  words  were  not  without  effect.  In  the  words  of 
another  great  critic,  Sir  Leslie  Stephen,  Arnold  "applied  good  whole- 


496  NOTES  [Pages  390-396 

some  irritants  to  our  stolid  self-satisfaction."  43.  Montesquieu, 
famous  French  philosophical  writer  of  the  eighteenth  century.  His 
best-known  work  is  L' Esprit  des  Lois  ("Spirit  of  the  Laws") ;  but 
the  quotation  in  the  text  is  from  his  Discourse  on  the  Motives  Which 
Ought  to  Impel  Us  to  Study.  70.  Thomas  Wilson  was  Bishop  of  the 
Isle  of  Man  from  1697  to  1755.  Arnold  considered  his  work  "the 
very  best,  perhaps,  which  our  race  and  nation  can  do  in  the  way  of 
religious  writing." 

Estimate  of  Emerson.  — r  Considerations  of  space  led  the  editor  to 
omit  a  number  of  sentences  from  the  first  two  paragraphs  of  the 
selection.  None  of  those  omitted  deal  with  Emerson.  8.  Newman 
was  not  a  Cardinal  when  Arnold  was  at  Oxford,  but  a  minister  in  the 
Church  of  England.  His  "solution"  of  his  doubts,  which  Arnold 
calls  "impossible,"  was  his  entrance  into  the  Church  of  Rome. 
35.  Arnold  heard  two  of  his  "voices"  when  he  read  Goethe's  Wil- 
helm  Meister's  Apprenticeship  in  Carlyle's  translation.  The  aim  of 
that  book  is  expressed  by  an  English  critic  thus :  "That  we  should 
give  unity  to  our  lives  by  devoting  them  with  hearty  enthusiasm  to 
some  pursuit,  and  that  the  pursuit  is  assigned  to  us  by  nature  through 
the  capacities  she  has  given  us." 

42.  James  Russell  Lowell  wrote  a  most  appreciative  and  entertain- 
ing essay  on  Emerson  the  Lecturer.  54.  Weimar,  Goethe's  home. 
81.  The  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  emperor  from  161  to 
180  A.D.,  show  that  he  preserved  "in  a  time  of  universal  corruption, 
unreality,  and  self-indulgence,  a  nature  sweet,  pure,  self-denying, 
unaffected." 

Shakespeare.  —  1.  Others  abide  our  question,  other  writers  endure 
(and,  in  some  sense,  answer)  our  questioning  (about  their  lives  and 
experiences).  Arnold  in  this  sonnet  says  that  Shakspere  did  not 
reveal  himself,  but  by  his  understanding  of  mankind's  pains  (12), 
weakness,  and  griefs  (13)  was  able  to  speak  for  the  whole  race  of  man. 
8.  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality,  the  search  of  mortals,  which  is 
foiled. 

Memorial  Verses.  —  2.  Byron  died  in  Greece  in  1824,  where  he  had 
gone  to  assist  the  Greeks  in  their  struggle  for  independence.  10.  the 
strife  was  in  Byron's  soul.  He  was  a  rebel  against  society,  and  set 
at  naught  its  conventions.  18.  Physician  of  the  iron  age.  In  clas- 
sical mythology  the  iron  age,  following  the  golden,  the  silver,  and 
the  bronze,  was  the  age  "wherein  toil  and  selfishness  are  the  burden 
of  a  degenerate  mankind."   {New  International  Dictionary.)    Arnold 


Pages  396-103]  NOTES  497 

says  Goethe's  mission  was  to  relieve  this.  23  flf.  Goethe  died  in 
1832,  having  seen  England  lose  her  American  colonies ;  France  set 
aside  her  rulers  in  a  bloody  "Reign  of  Terror"  ;  and  England,  with 
Prussia's  aid,  defeat  Napoleon's  scheme  to  dominate  Europe. 
38-39.  See  note  on  L' Allegro,  145.  72.  Rotha,  usually  "Rothay," 
a  stream  flowing  by  Grasmere  churchyard,  within  a  few  feet  of  Words- 
worth's grave. 

Requiescat.  —  The  Latin  title  of  this  dirge  means,  "  May  she  rest." 
On  tombs  it  is  usually  followed  by  in  pace,  "in  peace."  The  poem 
was  written  of  no  individual ;  but  some  one  has  suggested  that  the 
second  stanza  would  apply  well  to  some  great  comic  actress.  2.  The 
yew  is  found  much  in  cemeteries.  13.  cabined,  confined  in  small 
space,  as  in  a  cabin.  The  poem  is  an  expression  of  Arnold's  "world- 
weariness,"  characterized  by  lines  42-44  of  Memorial  Verses,  where 
he  is  speaking  of  Wordsworth. 

FaU  of  Sohrab.  —  The  story  of  Sohrab  and  Rustum  is  taken  from  a 
Persian  epic  pwem.  Shah  Nameh  (the  "Book  of  Kings"),  the  Iliad 
and  Odyssey  of  Persian  literature.  Arnold's  "episode"  narrates  the 
portion  of  the  story  familiar  in  folk-lore  as  the  "father-and-son  com- 
bat." Sohrab,  champion  of  the  Tartars,  has  been  chosen  by  his 
general,  Afrasiab,  to  fight  in  single  combat  with  a  champion  of  the 
Persians.  The  latter  choose  Rustum,  who  does  not  know  that 
Sohrab  is  his  son,  but  who  tries  to  dissuade  him  from  fighting  because 
of  his  youth  and  inex])erience.  Sohrab  asks  if  his  opponent  is  not 
Rustum,  the  latter  evades  the  question,  and  the  combat  begins. 

13  ff.  like  those  .  .  .  boughs.  Long,  formal  comparisons  and 
similes  are  features  of  the  epic  style.  Of.  75-77,  79-81.  15.  Hy- 
■phasis,  Hydaspes,  rivers  in  northern  India.  17.  tvrack,  ruin. 
119  ff.  The  efi'ect  of  the  "shouted"  name  is  explained  by  Sohrab, 
lines  150-153.  122-123.  Rustum's  conduct  contrasts  most  unfa- 
vorably with  Sohrab's  (23-29),  as  do  his  words  (131-142)  with 
Sohrab's  (30-50).  Sohrab,  after  his  fall,  proves  by  a  mark  on 
his  arm  that  he  is  Rustum's  son ;  whereupon  the  broken-hearted 
Rustum  admits  his  identity,  and  announces  that  he  will  bum  hie 
.tents,  quit  the  Persian  host,  and  take  Sohrab's  body  home  for 
burial. 

Dover  Beach.  —  The  French  coast  opposite  Dover  is  nearer  England 
than  at  any  other  point.  The  distance  from  Dover  to  Calais  is  only 
21  miles.  15.  Sophocles  was  one  of  the  three  greatest  writers  of 
Greek  tragedy.  —  The  p>oem  is  thus  summarized  by  Professor  Hale 


498  *  NOTES  [Pages  404-410 

(Select  Poems  of  Matthew  Arnold,  xliii) :  "We  have  first  a  picture 
of  the  calm  of  nature,  then  the  thought  of  the  turbid  tides  of  human- 
ity, then  the  thought  of  the  sad  incomprehensible  waning  of  faith, 
and  then,  as  with  a  sudden  pang  at  heart,  he  turns  to  the  one  beside 
him"  [Ah,  love  —  line  29]  "as  a  sort  of  sole  refuge  in  a  confused  and 
ignorant  world."  It  is  an  expression  of  despair,  but  also  of  a  stoical 
resignation  characteristic  of  the  author. 

Geist's  Grave. —  15.  the  Virgiltan  cry  was  Sunt  lachrimae  rerum! 
{^neid,  I,  462),  freely  translated  in  the  next  line.  42.  After  1867 
Arnold  wrote  very  little  poetry.  Geist's  Grave  was  written  in  1881. 
55.  The  absent  master  was  the  poet's  son  Richard.  70.  At  this 
time  the  family  were  living  at  Cobham,  a  few  miles  south  of  London 
on  the  Portsmouth  road. 

Tennyson.  —  In  Ulysses,  of  which  we  give  the  concluding  lines, 
(about  a  third  of  the  whole),  the  old  hero  and  wanderer  expresses 
himself  as  dissatisfied  with  the  peace  and  quiet  of  home  life,  and  as 
determined  to  set  forth  in  search  of  new  adventures.  The  story  is 
from  Dante's  Inferno,  not  Homer.  20.  the  Happy  Isles,  called  also 
the  "Fortunate  Islands"  and  the  "Islands  of  the  Blest,"  were  im- 
agined by  the  ancients  to  be  "somewhere"  in  the  West.  Like  the 
"happy  hunting-grounds"  of  the  Indians,  they  were  the  abode  after 
death  of  those  favored  by  the  gods. 

In  Memoriam  is  a  poem  of  a  himdred  and  thirty-three  sections  — 
or,  perhaps  better,  a  collection  of  so  many  poems  —  called  forth  by 
the  death  of  Tennyson's  best  friend,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.  They 
were  written  during  a  period  of  seventeen  years,  on  birthdays, 
Christmases,  New  Year's  Days,  and  other  anniversaries  connected 
with  the  friendship.  CVI.  The  time  of  this  section  is  plainly  New 
Year.  It  strikes  a  responsive  chord  in  many  hearts  to-day  (1917) 
more  than  half  a  century  after  its  publication. 

Home  They  Brought.  —  This  is  one  of  several  "intercalary"  songs 
(that  is,  inserted  between  the  main  divisions)  in  a  poem  that  has  had 
great  popularity.  The  student  is  probably  familiar  with  two  others 
of  these  songs — the  "bugle"  song,  beginning  "The  splendor  falls* 
on  castle  walls,"  and  the  lullaby,  "Sweet  and  low." 

Idylls  of  the  King  is  a  series  of  narrative  poems  dealing  with  King 
Arthur  and  his  knights.  Geraint  (g  pronounced  hard),  one  of  these 
knights,  "a  tributary  prince  of  Devon, "  had  fallen  in  love  with  Enid, 
daughter  of  Earl  Yniol,  when  Yniol  had  lost  his  possessions  through 


PAQB8  411-415]  NOTES  499 

treachery.  In  the  passage  immediately  preceding  that  given  in  our 
text,  the  women  are  preparing  a  gorgeous  gown  for  Enid's  wedding, 
since  her  father's  lands  and  fortune  have  been  restored  to  him. 
28.  Caerleon.  See  note  on  Legions,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  line  2. 
Qtieen,  Guinevere.      66.   gaudy-day,  feast  day. 

Gareth's  Combat.  —  Lynette  came  to  Arthur  and  asked  a  knight 
to  do  battle  for  her  sister  Lyonors,  besieged  in  her  own  castle  by  a 
knight  who  aimed  to  force  her  to  marry  him.  Gareth,  a  prince  dis- 
guised as  a  kitchen-knave,  asked  Arthur  to  give  him  the  quest,  and 
received  it.  Lynette,  incensed,  reviled  him  on  the  return  journey. 
Before  the  meeting  with  Noonday  Sun,  Gareth  had  been  victorious 
in  three  encounters ;  but  Lynette  was  imable  to  see  the  truth,  and 
continued  her  satiric  remarks  as  in  our  selection.  1.  Three  river- 
loops  guarding  the  approach  to  the  castle  of  Lyonors  were  held  by 
three  brothers  of  the  besieging  knight.  Gareth  had  already  de- 
feated the  first,  who  called  himself  "Morning-Star."  14.  vizoring 
up,  raising  the  vizor  of  his  helmet,  so  as  to  cover  his  cipher  (that  is, 
expressionless)  face.  30.  During  the  combat  with  Morning-Star, 
said  Lynette, 

"The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little  faintlier;    but  the  wind  hath  changed." 

38.  twice  my  love,  etc.  That  is,  "  her  dream  that  she  would  find  a 
victorious  champion  that  day  —  a  knight  who  would  achieve  her 
quest  and  become  her  love  —  has  been  twice  proved  true." 
3t)  ff.  The  punctuation  shows  that  Lynette  sings  a  song  of  three 
stanzas  (as  she  does  after  the  first  and  third  combats),  interrupting 
herself  with  comments.  50.  rosemaries  and  bay  were  the  regular 
decoration  in  old  times  for  the  boar's  head. 

The  Revenge.  —  This  poem  celebrates  a  battle  with  the  Spanish 
Armada  in  1591.  Tennyson  examined  several  contemporary  ac- 
counts, and  made  a  composite  story  that  is  historically  accurate. 
2.  pinnace,  a  small  vessel  that  was  doing  scout  duty.  12.  Inquisi- 
tion, a  court  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  for  the  apprehension 
and  punishment  of  heretics.  In  Spain  at  the  time  of  this  battle 
it  was  exceptionally  cruel.  17.  Devon,  a  county  in  southwestern 
England ;  Bideford,  the  village  in  which  Grenville  was  bom. 
21.  thumbscrew,  an  instrument  of  torture  much  used  by  the  Inquisi- 
tion to  force  confessions.  30.  Seville  (accented  on  the  first  syllable) 
was  at  this  time  the  capital  of  Spain.      31.   Don,  Spanish  title 


600  NOTES  [Pages  418-422 

equivalent  to  "Mister."  It  here  means  simply  "Spaniard." 
96.  the  lion,  Grenville.  101.  Qiieen  and  Faith,  Elizabeth  and  the 
Church  of  England.  Henry  VIII  had  broken  with  Rome  and  had 
had  himself  declared  head  of  the  Church  because  the  Pope  refused 
to  recognize  his  marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn,  mother  of  Elizabeth. 
114.   or,  before. 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade.  —  This  poem,  like  the  preceding, 
deals  with  a  real  event  —  in  the  Crimean  war.  The  "three  hun- 
dred" were  cut  to  pieces,  but  the  tide  of  battle  was  turned  when  the 
rest  of  the  brigade  arrived.  The  more  usual  spelling  of  the  name 
is  BalaA;lava.  Tennyson  follows  Kinglake,  author  of  The  Invasion 
of  the  Crimea,  the  standard  work  on  the  subject.  The  historian  gave 
the  poet  some  notes,  of  which  the  following  will  make  clear  the  situa- 
tion of  the  opposing  forces :  "  Scarlett  is  marching  eastward  with  his 
'300'  in  marching  order,  when,  casting  his  eyes  towards  the  heights 
on  his  left,  i.e.,  towards  the  north,  he  sees  a  host  of  Russians  break- 
ing over  the  sky-line  and  presently  advancing  downhill  towards  the 
south.  Thereupon  he  instantly  gives  the  order  'Left  wheel  into 
line !'  The  effect  of  this  is  to  make  the  '300'  no  longer  show  their 
flank  to  the  enemy,  but  confront  him."  21.  The  three  were  Scar- 
lett's aide-de-camp,  his  trumpeter,  and  an  orderly.  33.  The  "  300" 
were  the  Scots  Greys  and  the  second  squadron  of  Inniskillings,  an 
Irish  regiment  of  dragoons. 

T/irosiie.  —  Tennyson,  says  Van  Dyke,  "has  caught  more  of  the 
throbbing  and  passionate  and  joyous  voices  of  the  world  [than  has 
Wordsworth].  And  so  he  is  at  his  best  with  Nature  when  he  comes 
to  the  springtime."  In  The  Throstle,  "Immortal  youth  throbs  and 
pulses.     The  simple  music  of  joy.  .  .  ."     It  "sings  itself." 

Crossing  the  Bar  is  not,  as  is  popularly  supposed,  Tennyson's  last 
poem.  It  was  written  in  the  poet's  eighty-first  year;  and  his  son 
Hallam  said  on  reading  it,  "That  is  the  crown  of  your  life's  work." 
Tennyson  explained  the  "Pilot"  as  "that  Divine  and  Unseen  who  is 
always  guiding  us."  Hallam  Tennyson  adds :  "A  few  days  before 
my  father's  death  he  said  to  me,  '  Mind  you  put  Crossing  the  Bar  at 
the  end  of  my  poems.'" 

Browning.  —  Pippa  Passes  is  a  drama  depicting  how  Pippa,  a 
little  silk-mill  girl,  spends  her  one  holiday  in  the  year  —  New  Year's 
Day.  She  "passes"  around  the  town  singing,  and  by  her  songs,  all 
unknown  to  herself,  influences  various  people.     "The  year's  at  the 


Pages  423-427)  NOTES  501 

spring"  is  heard  by  a  wicked  couple  who  are  by  it  brought  to  a 
realization  of  their  sin,  and  to  repentance.  "That  little  peasant's 
voice,"  says  the  man,  "has  righted  all  again." 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News.  —  Browning  said  there  was 
"  no  sort  of  historical  foundation  "  for  this  poem.  The  distance  from 
Ghent  (in  Belgium)  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  (in  Prussia)  is  over  ninety 
miles ;  a  horse  that  could  gallop  the  whole  way  would  indeed  be  a 
horse  urUhoul  peer  (line  52).  10.  pique,  |x>mmel  of  a  saddle. 
14.  Lokeren  and  the  eight  other  places  mentioned  are  towns  on  the 
route.  Another  "horse"  poem  of  Browning's  that  would  interest 
most  students  is  Midiykeh. 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp  is  based  on  fact,  of  which,  however, 
the  hero  was  a  man,  not  a  boy.  1.  Ralisbon  (German  "Regena- 
burg"),  in  Bavaria,  was  stormed  by  Napoleon  in  1809.  5-6. 
Browning  describes  the  emperor  in  the  attitude  made  familiar  by 
many  pictures.  7.  prone,  bending  forward.  29.  flag-bird. 
Napoleon's  flag  had  an  eagle  on  it.  vans,  wings.  35.  film  is 
subject  of  sheathes  (34),  which  means  "covers." 

My  Last  Duchess.  —  An  excellent  example  of  the  "dramatic  mono- 
logue," a  poetic  form  created  by  Browning.  Although  only  one 
p>er8on  speaks,  the  presence  of  another  is  implied;  and  the  char- 
acter, thoughts,  and  actions  of  both,  and  frequently  of  others  not  on 
the  scene,  are  clearly  revealed.  In  My  Last  Duchess  the  Duke  has 
just  concluded  with  a  certain  count's  representative  arrangements  for 
his  marriage  with  the  count's  daughter.  As  the  interview  closes, 
the  Duke  draws  a  curtain  and  reveals  a  portrait  of  his  first  wife, 
which  he  admires  exceedingly  as  a  work  of  art.  In  all  he  says  he 
shows  her  a  most  attractive  character,  and  himself  most  arrogant, 
selfish,  jealous.     Lines  45-46  — 

"I  gave  commands; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together," 

have  been  by  some  explained  as  meaning  that  the  Duke  had  her  put 
to  death.  Browning  approved  this  explanation,  and  then  added, 
"Or  he  might  have  had  her  shut  up  in  a  convent."  It  really  is  of 
no  importance  how  she  was  got  out  of  the  way.  47.  We'll  meet, 
etc.,  shows  that  the  Duke  and  the  Count's  man  have  held  their 
interview  in  an  upper  apartment  while  some  sort  of  entertainment 
was  taking  place  below.  53.  Nay,  we'll  go,  etc.  The  visitor  stands 
back  to  let  his  superior  go  first.      54-56.  The  Duke  calls  attention 


502  NOTES  [Pages  427-428 

to  a  fine  piece  of  statuary  in  the  lower  hall,  or  perhaps  seen  outside 
through  a  window.  His  utter  heartlessness  is  shown  by  his  prompt 
dismissal  of  the  Duchess  from  his  thoughts.  56.  Clau^  of  Inns- 
bruck is  an  imaginary  artist,  as  is  Frd  Pandolf  of  hne  3. 

Home-Thoughts.  —  "The  allusion  to  the  English  thrush"  (Unes 
14-16),  says  Professor  Phelps,  "has  given  immortality  to  this  poem. 
Many  had  observed  that  the  thrush  sings  a  hit,  and  immediately 
repeats  it ;  but  Browning  was  the  first  to  give  a  pretty  reason  for  it. 
The  thrush  seems  to  say,  *  You  think  that  beautiful  melody  is  an  acci- 
dent? Well,  I  will  show  you  it  is  no  fluke,  I  will  sing  it  correctly 
right  over  again.'"    {Browning:  How  to  Know  Him,  page  84.) 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  contains  many  sentiments  based  on  the  writings 
of  a  famous  Jewish  scholar  of  the  twelfth  century ;  but  it  embodies 
much  of  Browning's  own  " philosophy  of  life."  The  poem  is  difficult, 
and  even  close  examination  will  not  reveal  all  its  greatness  to  the 
student ;  but  since  it  has  no  logical  development  of  thought,  much 
inspiration  and  other  kinds  of  satisfaction  can  be  got  from  separate 
passages.  It  is  one  of  many  poems  of  Browning  which  entitle  him 
to  the  praise  Arnold  gives  Emerson  (see  page  393)  —  "he  is  the  friend 
and  aider  of  those  who  would  five  in  the  spirit."  The  following 
summary  by  Berdoe  (Browning  Cyclopaedia)  may  assist  the  student 
to  understand  the  leading  thought  of  the  poem : 

"According  to  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  man's  life  is  to  be  viewed  as  a 
whole.  God's  plan  in  our  creation  has  arranged  for  youth  and  age, 
and  no  view  of  life  is  consistent  with  it  which  ignores  the  work  of 
either.  Man  is  not  a  bird  or  a  beast,  to  find  joy  solely  in  feasting ; 
care  and  doubt  are  the  life  stimuli  of  his  soul :  the  Divine  spark  within 
us  ia  nearer  to  God  than  are  the  recipients  of  his  inferior  gifts.  So 
our  rebuffs,  our  stings  to  urge  us  on,  our  strivings,  are  the  measure 
of  our  ultimate  success :  aspiration,  not  achievement,  divides  us  from 
the  brute.  The  body  is  intended  to  subserve  the  highest  aims  of 
the  soul :  it  will  do  so  if  we  live  and  learn.  The  flesh  is  pleasant, 
and  can  help  soul  as  that  helps  the  body.  Youth  must  seek  its  heri- 
tage in  age ;  in  the  repose  of  age  he  is  to  take  measures  for  his  last 
adventure.  This  he  can  do  with  prospect  of  success  proportionate  to 
his  use  of  the  past.  Wait  death  without  fear,  as  you  awaited  age.  Sen- 
tence will  not  be  passed  on  mere  '  work '  done :  our  purposes,  thoughts, 
fancies,  all  that  the  coarse  methods  of  human  estimates  failed  to 
appreciate,  these  will  be  put  in  the  diamond  scales  of  God  and  credited 
to  us.    God  is  the  Potter ;  we  are  clay,  receiving  our  shape  and  form 


Pages  429-438]  NOTES  "  503 

and  ornament  by  eveiy  turn  of  the  wheel  and  faintest  touch  of  the 
Master's  hand.  The  uses  of  a  cup  are  not  estimated  by  its  foot  or 
by  its  stem ;  but  by  the  bowl  which  presses  the  Master's  lips  to  slake 
the  Divine  thirst.  We  cannot  see  the  meaning  of  the  wheel  and  the 
touches  of  the  potter's  hand  and  instrument ;  we  know  this,  and  this 
only,  —  our  times  are  in  his  hand  who  has  planned  a  i>erfect  cup." 
This  summary  is  intended  to  help  one  to  understand  the  poem,  not 
to  take  the  place  of  it. 

24.  This  line  is  an  instance  of  the  harshness  not  infrequently 
found  in  Browning.  He  had  great  musical  talent,  but  his  jx)etry  is 
not  always  harmonious.  40-42.  Cf.  Stevenson,  page  435,  hne  17 : 
"An  aspiration  is  a  joy  forever."  52.  dole,  share.  75.  term, 
stopping-place.  84.  indue,  put  on.  113.  tempt,  try.  124- 
125.  Supply  "whom"  after  /  and  they.  150.  The  figure  of  the 
potter,  which  is  continued  to  the  end  of  the  poem,  is  from  Isaiah 
LXIV,  8,  and  Jeremiah  XVIII,  2-6.  168.  impressed,  shaped.  169- 
174.    The  first  half  of  this  stanza  refers  to  youth,  the  last  half  to  age. 

Epilogue,  which  app>eared  first  in  a  volume  published  the  day 
Browning  died,  is  his  confession  of  faith  in  a  future  life  of  activity 
and  usefulness.  Berdoe  quotes  the  following  from  a  London  paper 
a  short  time  after  the  p>oet's  death :  "One  evening,  just  before  his 
death  illness,  the  poet  was  reading  this  (the  third  verse)  from  a 
[printer's]  proof  to  his  daughter-in-law  and  sister.  He  said :  '  It 
almost  looks  like  bragging  to  say  this,  and  as  if  I  ought  to  cancel  it ; 
but  it's  the  simple  truth :  and  as  it's  true,  it  shall  stand.'  His  faith 
knew  no  doubting.     In  all  trouble,  against  all  evil,  he  stood  firm." 

5.   Supply  "will  you."       17.   unseen,  the  poet  after  death. 

Stevenson.  —  El  Dorado  is  Spanish,  meaning  "  the  golden."  The 
name  was  applied  by  Spaniards  of  the  sixteenth  centurj'  to  an  imagi- 
nary city  of  great  wealth  in  South  America,  from  which  it  came  to 
mean  any  place  of  fabulous  wealth.  It, then  came  to  have  the  mean- 
ing, as  in  Stevenson,  anything  valuable,  much  desired  and  sought, 
but  unattainable. 

15.  term,  termination.  17.  An  aspiration  is  a  joy  forever.  A 
recollection  of  the  first  line  of  Keats's  Endymion  —  "A  thing  of 
beauty  is  a  joy  forever."  23.  piece,  play.  34.  amulets,  charms. 
53.  Edward  Gibbon  spent  more  than  twenty  years  writing  his  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  79.  Of  making,  etc.  Ecclesiaates 
XII,  12.      83-85.   Cf.  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  31-42. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Addison,  Joseph,  171-186. 

Adversity,  Of  —  Bacon,  79. 

JEneid,  Preface  to  Translation  of  — 
Caxton,  60. 

^neid.  Translation  of  (extract)  — 
Surrey,  66. 

Alfred  the  Great,  9-11. 

AUhea,  To  —  Lovelace,  101. 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That  — 
Burns,  232. 

Amoretti  (two  sonnets  from)  — 
Spenser,  76. 

Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle,  The  (ex- 
tracts),  11. 

Arc€uiia,  Description  of — Sidney, 
72. 

Areopagitica  (extract)  —  Milton, 
118. 

Argument  against  Abolishing  Chris- 
tianity —  Swift,  144. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  388-406. 

Asolando,  Epilogue  to  —  Browning, 
434. 

Astrophel  and  Stella  (two  sonnets 
from)  —  Sidney,  71. 

As  You  Like  It  (song  from)  — 
Shakspere,  89. 

Auld  Lang  Syne  —  Bums,  229. 

Austen,  Jane,  315-323. 

Bacon,  Francis,  79-87. 

Ballads,  English  and  Scottish  Pop- 
ular, 52-60. 

Banks  o'  Doon  —  Bums,  233. 

Battle  of  Ivry,  The  —  Macaulay,' 
330. 

Battle  of  the  Books,  The  (extract) 
—  Swift,  138. 

Beatitudes,  The  —  Tyndale,  68. 

Beatitudes,   The  —  Wiclif,   17. 

Beda.  5-8. 

Beowulf  (extracts),  1. 

Bonnie  George  Campbell  —  Anony- 
mous, 54. 


BoswELL,  James,  197-202. 
Boswell,  James  —  Carlyle,  333. 
Boswell,  James  —  Macaulay,  323. 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,  The  (extract) 

—  Scott,  303. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  121-124. 

Browning,  Robert,  422-434. 

BuU-Fight,  The -{Irom  Childe  Har- 
old) —  Byron,  253. 

BuNYAN,  John,  134-138. 

Burke,  Edmund,  207-211. 

Burke,  Edmund  (from  The  Retalia- 
tion) —  Goldsmith,  206. 

Burns,  Robert,  220-233. 

Bums,  Robert  (from  Heroes  and 
Hero-Worship)  —  Carlyle,  338. 

Byron,  George  Noel  Gordon, 
Lord,  251-259. 

CiEDMON,   4. 

Campaign,  The  (extract)  —  Addi- 
son, 172. 

Canterbury  Tales,  Prologue  — 
Chaucer,  22. 

Carew,  Thomas,  99-101. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  333-343. 

Caxton,  William,  60-62. 

Celia,  Song  to  —  Jonson,  92. 

Chapman's  Homer,  On  First  Look- 
ing into  —  Keats,  268. 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior  — 
Wordsworth,  240. 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade,   The 

—  Tennyson,  419. 

Charity  (from  Religio  Medici)  — 
Browne,  122. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  22-52. 

Chaucer  (from  Table  Talk)  —  Cole- 
ridge, 247. 

Chaucers  Wordes  unto  Adam  — 
Chaucer,  52. 

Cherry-Ripe  —  Herrick,  97. 

Chesterfield,  Letter  to  the  Earl  of  — 
Johnson,  191. 


505 


506 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Chiide  Harold  (extracts)  —  Byron, 

253. 
Christ  (extracts)  —  Cynewulf,  4. 
Chronicle,     The    Anglo-Saxon    (ex- 
tracts),  11. 
Cloud,  The  —  Shelley,  262. 
Coffee-houses,  London  —  Macaulay, 

327. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  247- 

251. 
Collins,  William,  211-213. 
Coming  of  the  Angles  —  Beda,  6. 
Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge 

—  Wordsworth,  244. 
Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 

Eater    (extracts)  —  De   Quincey, 

298. 
Constant     Lover,     The  —  Suckling, 

102. 
Corinna's  Going  A-Maying  —  Her- 

rick,  94. 
Couplets  from   his   Poems  —  Pope, 

187. 
Cowper,  William,  218-219. 
Crossing  the  Bar  —  Tennyson,  422. 
Culture  and  Anarchy   (extract)  — 

Arnold,  388. 
Cupid  and  Campaspe  —  Lyly,  71. 
Cyrnbeline      (song     from)  —  Shak- 

spere,  90. 
Cynewulf,  4-5. 

Daisy,    To    a    Mountain  —  Burns, 

221. 
David      Copperfield      (extracts)  — 

Dickens,  346. 
Defoe,  Daniel,  150-160. 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  295-303. 
Description  of  Spring  —  Surrey,  65. 
Deserted  Village,   The  (extracts)  — 

Goldsmith,  202. 
Diary  (extracts)  —  Pepys,  124. 
Dickens,  Charles,  343-356. 
Discourses  in  America :  ' '  Emerson ' ' 

(extract)  —  Arnold,  391. 
Disdain  Returned  —  Carew,  100. 
Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig,  A  — 

Lamb,  282. 
Don  Juan  (stanzas  from)  —  Byron, 

259. 
Dover  Beach  —  Arnold,  402. 


Dream,     A     Midsummer     Night's 

(song  from)  —  Shakspere,   89. 
Dream-Children  —  Lamb,  290. 
Dryden,  John,  129-134. 

Ecclesiastical  History,  Preface  to  — 
Beda,  5. 

Education  of  Women,  The  —  Defoe, 
150. 

El  Dorado  —  Stevenson,  435. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog  — 
Goldsmith,  206. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard —  Gray,  214. 

Elia,  Essays  of —  Lamb,  282. 

Eliot,  George,  356-363. 

Emerson,  Estimate  of  —  Arnold, 
391. 

English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  : 
"  Wordsworth"  —  Byron,  252. 

Essay  on  Criticism  (couplets  from) 

—  Pope,  187. 

Essay  on  Man  (couplets  from)  — 
Pope,  187. 

Essay  upon  Projects  (extract)  — 
Defoe,  150. 

Euphues  (extract)  —  Lyly,  69. 

Evening,  Ode  to  —  Collins,  212. 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The  —  Keats,  270. 

Expostulation  and  Reply  —  Words- 
worth, 237. 

Faerie     Queene,     The     (extract)  — 

Spenser,  74. 
Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton  —  Burns, 

231. 
Flying,  Dissertation  on  the  Art  of 

(from  Rasselc^)  —  Johnson,  193. 
Frozen  Words  —  Addison,  173. 

Geist's  Grave  —  Arnold,  404. 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  16-17. 
Ghent  to  Aix,  How  they  Brought  the 

Good     News     from  —  Browning, 

423. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  202-207. 
Goldsmith,  Character  of  —  Boswell, 

199. 
Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  On  the 

—  Keats,  268. 

Gray,  Thomas,  214-218. 


INDEX  OF' AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


507 


Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a  —  Keats, 
269. 

Happy  Warrior,  Character  of  the  — 

Wordsworth.  240. 
Heaven    and    Hell    (from     Religio 

Medici)  —  Browne,  121. 
Heroes  and  Hero-Worahip  (extract) 

—  Carlyle,  338. 
Herrick,  Robert,  94-99. 
History    of    England     (extract)  — 

Macaulay,  327. 
Home-Thoughts,     from     Abroad  — 

Browning,  427. 
Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey, 

65-67. 
How   Roses    Came   Red  —  Herrick, 

96. 
How    Sleep    the    Brave  —  Collins, 

211. 
How  the  Lover  Perisheth  —  Wyatt, 

65. 
How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix  —  Browning, 

423. 
Huxley,    Thomas    Henry,    372- 

381. 

Idylls  of  the  King  (extracts)  — 
Tennyson,  410. 

II  Penseroso  —  Milton,   108. 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp  — 
Browning,  425. 

In  Memoriam  (extracts)  —  Tenny- 
son, 407. 

In  Praise  of  His  Mistress  —  Carew, 
99. 

Invocation  (from  Christ)  —  Cyne- 
wulf,  4. 

Ivry,  Battle  of  —  Macaulay,  330.    • 

Johnson,  Samuel,  191-197. 
Johnson,     First     Meeting     wiih  — 

Boswell,  197. 
Johnson's    Manner    of    Talking  — 

Boswell,  202. 
JoNsoN,  Ben,  92-94. 

Keats,  John,  268-281. 

Kemp  Owyne  —  Anonymous,  55. 

Kubla  Khan  —  Coleridge,   249. 


Lachin  y  Gair  —  Byron,  251. 
Lady  of  the  Lake,  The  (song  from) 

—  Scott,  310. 

L' Allegro  —  MUton,  103. 

Lamb,  Charles,  282-294. 

Lamb,  A  Meeting  wUh  —  De 
Quincey,  295. 

Lanoland,   Willlam,   18-20. 

London,  1802  —  Wordsworth,  245. 

Lord  Randal  —  Anonymous,   55. 

Lovelace,  Richard,  101-102. 

Lucasta,  To  —  Lovelace,  101. 

Lycidas — Milton,  112. 

"  Lycidas,"  on  Some  Lines  of  — 
Ruskin,  382. 

Lyly,  John,  68-71. 

"Lyrical  Ballads,"  Preface  to  (ex- 
tracts) —  Wordsworth,  233. 

Macaulay.    Thomas   Babinoton, 

323-332. 
Mac  Flecknoe  —  Dryden,   132. 
Macpherson,    James,    Letter    to  — 

Johnson,  193. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  62-65. 
Mandeville,  Sir  John,  20-21. 
Marlborough  (from  The  Campaign) 

—  Addison,  171. 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  87-88. 
Marmion  (extract)  —  Scott,  312. 
Marriage  and    Single   Life,    Of  — 

Bacon,  80. 
Memorial  Verses  —  Arnold,  395. 
Mill  on  the  Floss,  The  (extract)  — 

Eliot,  357. 
Milton,  John,  103-120. 
Mirzah,  The  Vision  of  —  Addison, 

181. 
Moore,  To  Thomas  —  BjTon,  257. 
Moral   Essays    (couplets    from)  — 

Pope,  188. 
Morte  D' Arthur  (extract)  —  Malory, 

62. 
Mountain    Daisy,    To    a  —  Bums, 

221. 
Motise,   To  a  —  Bums,  220. 
My  Last  Duchess  —  Browning,  426. 

NU  Nisi  Bonum  —  Thackeray,  368. 
Noble     Lord,     To    a     (extract)  — 
Burke,  210. 


508 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


Ode:     "How   Sleep   the   Brave"  — 

Collins,  211. 
Ode   on   a   Greeian    Urn  —  Keats, 

269. 
Ode  to  Evening  —  Collins,  212. 
Ode   to   the    West   Wind  —  Shelley, 

259. 
Oliver  Twist,  Preface  to  —  Dickens, 

343. 
On  First  Looking  into   Chapman's 

Homer  —  Keats,  268. 
On  his  Blindness  —  Milton,  1 18. 
On  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 

—  Keats,  268. 
Opium-Eater,     Confessions     of    an 

(extracts)  —  De  Quincey,  298. 
Othello  (from   Table   Talk)  —  Cole- 
ridge, 247. 

Pardoner's  Tale,  The  —  Chaucer,  40. 
Paraphrase,   The   (extract)  —  Caed- 

mon,  4. 
Passionate   Shepherd    to    his   Love, 

The  —  Marlowe,  88. 
Pastoral    Care,     Preface    to    Pope 

Gregory's  —  Alfred  the  Great,  9. 
Patriotism,    An    Observation    on  — 

Coleridge,  248. 
Pepys,  Samuel,  124-129. 
Phillis,  To  —  Herrick,  98. 
Piers  the  Plowman,   The  Vision  of 

(extract)  —  Langland,  18. 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  The  (extract)  — 

Bunyan,  134. 
Pippa      Passes      (song      from)  — 

Browning,  422. 
Pope,  Alexander,  187-188. 
Preface  to  Oliver  Twist  —  Dickens, 

343. 
Preface  to  Pope  Gregory's  Pastoral 

Care  —  Alfred  the  Great,  9. 
Preface  to  Robinson  Crusoe  —  De- 
foe, 153. 
Prelude,     The    (extract)  —  Words- 
worth, 243. 
Prester     John,      The    Land    of  — 

Mandeville,  20. 
Pride    and    Prejudice    (extract)  — 

Austen,  315. 
Princess,      The      (song      from)  — 

Tennyson,  410. 


Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales  — • 

Chaucer,  22. 
Prothalamion    (extract)  —  Spenser, 

77. 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  —  Browning,  428. 

Rasselas  (extract)  —  Johnson,  193. 

Religio  Medici  (extracts)  — 
Browne,  121. 

Requiescat  —  Arnold,  397. 

Retaliation,  The  (extract)  —  Gold- 
smith, 206. 

Revenge,  The  —  Tennyson,  414. 

Roast  Pig,  Dissertation  upon  — 
Lamb,  282. 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial  — 
Anonymous,  57. 

Robinson  Crusoe  (extracts)  — 
Defoe,  153. 

Roundabout  Papers:  "Nil  Nisi 
Bonum"  —  Thackeray,  368. 

RusKiN,  John,  382-388. 

St.    Agnes,    The    Eve    of  —  Keats, 

270. 
Scientific  Investigation,  The  Method 

o/— Huxley,  372. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  303-314. 
Seasons,    The    (extracts)  —  Thom- 
son, 188. 
Sesame     and     LUies     (extract)  — 

Raskin,  382. 
Shakespeare         (sonnet)  —  Arnold, 

395. 
Shakespeare,   To  the  Memory  of  — 

Jonson,  92. 
Shakspere,  William,  88-91. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  259-268. 
Sheriffs  of  Bristol,  Letter  to  (extract) 

—  Burke,  207. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  71-73. 
Sir   Patrick    Spens  —  Anonymous, 

52. 
Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight 

(extracts)  —  Anonymous,  12. 
Skylark,  To  a  —  Shelley,  264. 
Sohrab    and    Rustum    (extract)  — 

Arnold,  398. 
Soldier,  Rest!  —  Scott,  310. 
Sonnet  on  His  Blindness  —  Milton, 

118. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  TITLES 


509 


Sonnet    on    Shakespeare  —  Arnold, 

395. 
Sonnet  to  Mrs.   Unxtnn  —  Cowper, 

219. 
Sonnets  —  Keats,  268. 
Sonnets  —  Shakespere,  91. 
Sonnets  —  Sidney,  71. 
Sonnets  —  Spenser,  76. 
Sonnets  —  Wordsworth,  244. 
Spectator,  The  —  Addison,  177. 
Spenser,  Eduund,  74-79. 
Spring,  Description  of — Surrey,  65. 
Steele,  Richard,  Sir,  160-171. 
Stevenson,   Robert  Louis,  435- 

438. 
Sttidies,  Of—  Bacon,  85. 
Styk,  On  —  Coleridge,  248. 
SucKUNO,  Sir  John,  102-103. 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  65-67. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  138-150. 

Table  Talk  (extracts)  —  Coleridge, 
247. 

Tables  Turned,  The  —  Wordsworth, 
238. 

Tamburlaine,  A  Boast  of —  Mar- 
lowe, 87. 

Tarn  o'  Shanter  —  Burns,  223. 

Task.  The  (extract)  —  Cowper,  218. 

Taller,  The  — Steele,  160;  and 
Addison,  173. 

Tempest,  The  (song  from)  —  Shak- 
spere,  90. 

Tempest,  The,  Preface  to  —  Dryden,. 
129. 

Tempest,  The  —  Pepys,  124. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  406- 
422. 

Thackeray,  William  Make- 
peace, 363-372. 

Thirty-third  Birthday,  On  My  — ' 
Byron,  258. 

Thomson,  James,  188-191. 


Throstle,  The  —  Tennyson,  421. 
To  the  Virgiru,  To  Make  Much  of 

Time  —  Herrick,  97. 
Travels  (extract)  —  Mandeville,  20. 
Twelfth  Night  (song  from)  —  Shak- 

spere,  90. 
Two    Gentlemen    of    Verona    (song 

from)  —  Shakspere,  88. 
Tyndale,  Wiluam,  68. 

Ulysses    on   Old    Age  —  Tennyson, 

406. 
Una  and  the  Lion  (from  Tfie  Faerie 

Queene)  —  Spenser,  74. 
Under  Milton's  Picture  —  Dryden, 

134. 
Unwin,  Mrs.,  Sonnet  to  —  Cowper, 

219. 

Vanity  Fair  (extract)  —  Thackeray, 

363. 
Village    Preacher,    The    (from    The 

Deserted      Village)  —  Goldsmith, 

202. 
Vision  of  Mirzah,  The  —  Addison, 

181. 

Warren  Hastings,  Scene  at  the  Trial 

of  —  Macaulay,  325. 
Waterloo    (from    Childe   Harold)  — 

Byron,  255. 
Westminster  Bridge,  Composed  upon 

—  Wordsworth,  244. 
West  Wind,  Ode  to  the  —  Shelley, 

259. 
WicLiF.  John,  17-18. 
Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut  — 

Bums,  230. 
Wisdom  for   a   Man's   Self,    Of  — 

Bacon,  82. 
Wordsworth,  William,  233-246. 
Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  65. 

YouUi  and  Age,  Of—  Bacon,  83. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES   OF   POEMS 


Adam  scriveyn,  if  ever  it  thee 
bifalle,  52. 

All  human  things  are  subject  to 
decay,  li2. 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard 
Grenville  lay,  414. 

At  length  they  all  to  mery  London 
came,  77. 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the 
sleep-time,  434. 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gar- 
dens of  roses,  251. 

Beside   yon   straggling   fence    that 

skirts  the  way,  205. 
Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast,  311. 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry,  97. 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mild- 
ness, come,  190. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
88. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played,  71. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
92. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show 
more  fair,  244. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among 

thy  green  braes,  231. 
Four  years   —  and  didst  thou  stay 

above,  404. 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

97. 
Get    up,    get    up    for    shame,    the 

blooming  morn,  94. 
Goethe    in     Weimar    sleeps,     and 

Greece,  395. 
Good  people  all,  of  every  sort,  206. 
Grow  old  along  with  me,  428. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit !    264. 
Hark,  hark !    the  lark  at  heaven's 

gate  sings,  90. 
Hence,  loathed  Melancholy,  103. 
Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys,  108. 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose 

genius  was  such,  206. 
He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek,  100. 
Her    mother    died    when   she    was 

young,  55. 
Hie  upon  Hielands,  54. 
Home    they    brought    her    warrior 

dead,  410. 
How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to 

rest,  211. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirst- 
ing flowers,  262. 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral 
song,  212. 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings, 
407. 

In  a  summer  season,  when  soft  was 
the  sun,  18. 

In  Flaundres  whylom  was  a  com- 

•    panye,  40. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan,  249. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris, 
and  he,  423. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty,  232. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,  240. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds,  91. 
Like  as  a  ship,   that  through  the 

ocean  wide,  76. 
Live,  live  with  me,  and  thou  shalt 

see,  98. 
Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse 

my  love  to  show,  71. 

Mary !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other 
strings,  219. 


510 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS 


511 


Men    call    you    fair,    and    you    do 

credit  it,  77. 
Milton!   thou  shouldat  be  living  at 

this  hour,  245. 
Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms 

of  gold,  268. 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore,  257. 

Now  glorj'  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
from  whom  all  glories  are,  330. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's 
narrow  room,  245. 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilder- 
ness, 218. 

Oh,  to  be  in  England,  427. 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you 
roaming?  90. 

Others  abide  our  question.  Thou 
art  free,  395. 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved,-?  02. 

Over  hill,  over  dale,  89. 

O  where  hae  ye  been.  Lord  Randal, 
my  son?  55. 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of 
Autumn's  being,  259. 

O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut, 
230. 

Ring  out,  wild   bells,  to  the  wild 

8k>',  408. 
Roses  at  first  were  white,  96. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill 

it  was !    270. 
Scorn    not    the    Sonnet;      Critic, 

you  have  frowned,  246. 
See,    Winter    comes,    to    rule    the 

varied  year,  188. 
She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  239. 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  for- 
got, 229. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er,  310. 
Some  fowls  there  be  that  have  so 

perfect  sight,  65. 
Strew  on  her  roses,  roses,  397. 
Summer    is    coming,     summer    is 

coming!   421. 
Sunset  and  evening  star,  422. 
Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of 

the  plain,  202. 


Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

101. 
That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on 

the  wall,  426. 
The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade !  419. 
The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  part- 
ing day,  214. 
The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

52. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead, 

268. 
The  sea  is  calm  to-night,  402. 
The   soote   season,    that    bud    and 

bloom  forth  brings,  65. 
The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

172. 
The  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay,  258. 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us; 

late  and  soon,  246. 
The  year's  at  the  spring,  422. 
There    lies    the    port;     the    vessel 

puffs  her  sail,  406. 
There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by 

night,  255. 
Thou     still     unravished     bride    of 

quietness,  269. 
Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages 

bom,  134. 
Through  life's  dull   road,   so  dim 

and  dirty,  258. 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air,  409. 
To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on 

thy  name,  92. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree,  89. 
Up !  up !  my  friend  and  quit  your 
books.  238. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tippM  flow'r, 

221. 
Wee,     sleekit,     cowrin,      tim'rous 

beastie,  220. 
Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures 

sote,  22. 
When  a  man  hath  no  freedom  to 

fight  for  at  home,  258. 
When    chapman    billies    leave    the 

street,  223. 
When  I  consider  how  my  light  is 

spent,  118. 


512 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS 


When,    in    disgrace    with    fortune 

and  men's  eyes,  91. 
When  Love  with  unconfined  wings, 

101. 
When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John, 

57. 
Where  the  bees  sucks,  there  suck  I, 

90. 
Who  is  Sylvia?  what  is  she,  88. 
Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?     Who 

is  he,  240. 
Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

103. 


Why,   William,  on   that   old   grey 

stone,  237. 
With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou 

climb'st  the  skies,  72. 
Would    you    know  what's  soft?    I 

dare,  100. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonie  Doon, 

233. 
Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and 

once  more,  112. 
You    know,    we    French    stormed 

Ratisbon,  425. 
You  that  will  a  wonder  know,  99. 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


SEP  2  4  197R 


SEP2  7ltf| 


CI  39 


UCSD  Libr. 

~|>..»Mnm«ini  III  I  III 

A    001  117  171    V 


